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An  Archite&'s  Sketch  Book 


aiixi  1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1  ixx 


AN  ARCHITECT'S 
SKETCH  BOOK 

Robert  Swain  Peabody 


BOSTON  AND  NEW  YORK 
HOUGHTON  MIFFLIN  COMPANY 
MDCCCCXII 


COPYRIGHT,  1912,  BY  ROBERT  SWAIN  PEABODY 
Published  March  igi2 


TO 


Some  of  these  essays  came  into  existence  as  contributions  to  the 
"  papers  "  read  at  the  Thursday  Evening  Club.  Some  of  them 
have  reached  the  dignity  of  publication  in  the  Atlantic  Monthly. 
Some  of  them  see  the  light  for  the  first  time  here.  All  of  them  are  by- 
products of  an  active  professional  life.  The  sketches,  which  illus- 
trate in  an  imperfect  manner  the  different  essays,  are  gathered  from 
many  sketch  books  which  record  impressions  gained  in  those  portions 
of  an  architect's  life  which  are  as  precious  as  they  are  infrequent, — 
his  vacations. 


22  The  Fenway,  Boston 
March,  1912 


Contents 

I.  A  VENETIAN  DAY  1 

II.  THE  ITALIAN  RENAISSANCE  13 

III.  RURAL  ENGLAND  31 

IV.  FRENCH  AND  ENGLISH  CHURCHES  45 
V.  THE  FIVE  ORDERS  OF  ARCHITECTURE  61 

VI.  ON  THE  DESIGN  OF  HOUSES  75 

VII.  BY  THE  SEA  91 


Illustrations 


NORTHERN  TOWER  AT  CHARTRES  Frontispiece 

SANTA  MARIA  DELLA  SALUTE,  —  VENICE  6 

GOTHIC  WORK  IN  VENICE  AND  FLORENCE  10 

FARM  BUILDINGS  NEAR  FLORENCE  20 

NEAR  MONTREUX,  LAKE  OF  GENEVA  24 

STANWICK  CHURCH,  NORTHAMPTONSHIRE  34 

HIGHAM  FERRERS  CHURCH,  NORTHAMPTONSHIRE  34 

RAUNDS  CHURCH,  NORTHAMPTONSHIRE  36 

ST.  SEPULCHRE,  NORTHAMPTON  36 

RINGSTEAD  CHURCH,  NORTHAMPTONSHIRE  38 

MARTOCK  CHURCH,  SOMERSETSHIRE  38 

MULCHENEY  CHURCH,  SOMERSETSHIRE  40 

YAXTON  CHURCH,  LINCOLNSHIRE,  AND  COUND  CHURCH 

SALOP  40 

KINGSBURY  EPISCOPI  CHURCH,  SOMERSETSHIRE  42 

SAINT  PAUL'S  CATHEDRAL,  LONDON  42 


xii  Illustrations 

BOSTON  STUMP,  LINCOLNSHIRE  48 

HECKINGTON  CHURCH,  LINCOLNSHIRE  49 

DURHAM  CATHEDRAL  50 

LINCOLN  CATHEDRAL  50 

CHURCH  OF  ST.  OUEN,  ROUEN  52 

CHURCH  OF  ST.  OUEN,  ROUEN  52 

THE  CATHEDRAL  AT  LAON  54 

THE  CATHEDRAL  AT  PARIS  54 

THE  CATHEDRAL  AT  PARIS  56 

THE  PORTALS  AT  RHEIMS  56 

THE  CATHEDRAL  AT  COUTANCES  58 

THE  CATHEDRAL  AT  LE  MANS  58 
THE  WESTERN  DOORWAY  AT  BOURGES  CATHEDRAL  60 
THE  WESTERN  DOORWAY  AT  THE  CATHEDRAL  OF  TOURS  60 

THE  SOUTHERN  TOWER  AT  AMIENS  CATHEDRAL  60 

CHATEAU  DE  MESNlERES,  NORMANDY  78 

CHATEAU  DE  LANGEAIS,  TOURAINE  80 

CHATEAU  BRIAND,  COMBOURG  82 

CHATEAU  DE  BLOIS,  TOURAINE  84 

COTTAGE  NEAR  SEVEN  OAKS,  KENT  86 


Illustrations  xiii 

LUDFORD  HOUSE,  LUDLOW,  SALOP  88 

MARBLEHEAD,  MASSACHUSETTS  94 

MASSACHUSETTS  BAY  96 

ON  THE  MAINE  COAST  96 

OFF  VENICE  98 

ON  THE  PENOBSCOT  RIVER,  MAINE  98 

ON  THE  THAMES  AT  GREENWICH  100 

IN  THE  BRITISH  CHANNEL  102 

OFF  BOSTON  LIGHT,  MASSACHUSETTS  102 

AT  SEA  104 


i 


A  Venetian  Day 


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An  Architect's  Sketch  Book 


i 

A  VENETIAN  DAY 
1892 

WHEN  we  open  our  blinds  in  the  early  morning  a  gray  fog 
envelops  all  Venice.  We  can  just  see  the  gondoliers  at 
the  boat  landing  beneath  us  busily  polishing  the  steel  prows  and 
the  brass  sea  horses  that  brighten  their  craft.  Then  little  by  little 
the  fog  grows  transparent,  and  the  two  pale  domes  of  the  "  Salute," 
shimmering  in  the  early  sunlight,  define  themselves  on  the  pale 
sky.  The  Venetian  day  has  begun. 

If  any  single  building  in  Venice  is  conspicuous  as  a  beautiful  and 
characteristic  landmark  it  is  this  twin-domed  church.  Many 
neighboring  cities  possess  towers  resembling  those  of  Venice. 
In  fact  there  are  one  or  two  others  here  in  Venice  that  are  confus- 
ingly like  the  great  Campanile,  and  except  for  its  great  size  we  can- 
not reckon  its  towering  mass  as  peculiar  to  Venice  alone.  St. 
Mark's  Church  is  too  hidden  to  be  a  prominent  landmark  in  a 
general  view.  The  Ducal  Palace  is  too  simple  in  outline  to  count 
from  a  distance  as  a  noticeable  feature.  But  from  every  side  of 
approach  the  coupled  domes  of  Santa  Maria  della  Salute  mark 
nobly  the  entrance  to  the  Grand  Canal.  Its  general  scheme  is 
fantastic  and  unusual.  Its  details,  though  classic,  are  exuberant 


4  An  ArchitedVs  Sketch  Book 

and  not  remarkable  for  delicacy  or  purity;  yet  both  on  the  canal 
side,  where  it  rises  above  a  spreading  flight  of  steps  and  a  deserted 
piazza,  and  on  the  side  of  the  Giudecca,  where  its  domes  and 
slender  towers  overtop  a  green  grove  of  trees,  it  forms  a  graceful 
composition.  Its  general  mass  is  perhaps  the  most  pleasing  that 
any  Renaissance  church  can  offer. 

As  is  fitting  in  Venice,  the  Salute's  white  walls  rise  visibly  from 
the  sea  and  its  domes  are  reflected  upon  a  mile  or  two  of  green 
waters.  Venice  would  doubtless  be  beautiful  if  it  did  not  thus 
mirror  itself  in  these  broad  expanses;  but  what  an  added  charm 
this  gives  to  it!  Though  it  may  be  that  our  errand  in  Venice  is 
to  study  architecture,  the  sparkling  lagoon  and  its  craft  quickly 
entice  us  away  from  buildings.  As  the  sun  mounts  high  and  the 
breeze  freshens,  we  leave  the  Riva  and  gradually  the  city  fades 
into  the  haze.  The  green  waters  are  flecked  with  white  caps. 
Fishing  "burchios,"  with  dragnets  spread  and  sails  half  raised, 
drift  broadside  with  the  wind.  Up  the  wandering  channel  that 
is  marked  by  long  lines  of  piles  come  huge  "trabaccoli,"  their 
bellying  sails  banded  and  starred  with  red  and  yellow.  Although 
they  and  the  "bragozzi"  of  Chioggia  are  boxlike,  flat-bottomed 
structures  with  no  centre-  or  weather-boards,  yet  these  great 
boats  tack  and  go  to  windward  very  handily.  The  secret  of  their 
power  lies  in  the  great  rudder  which  goes  far  below  the  boat's 
bottom  and  forms  an  effective  centreboard  that  can  be  raised  in 
shallow  waters.  Their  rounded  bows  end  in  involved  curves. 
On  each  side  of  the  bow  is  carved  and  painted  an  immense  eye. 
Because  the  Adriatic  boats  have  always  been  thus  adorned,  the 


A  Venetian  Day  5 

trabaccolo  must  have  its  useless  eyes,  and  has  had  them  since 
in  somewhat  similar  craft  the  Greeks  rowed  from  Athens  to 
Syracuse  or  Romans  cruised  off  the  Carthaginian  shore. 

A  wealth  of  color  —  orange,  or  red,  or  brown,  or  pale  blue  —  is 
given  to  the  views  of  the  lagoon  by  the  sails  of  all  these  vessels. 
They  are  seen  in  every  variety  as  they  cruise  outside  of  Chioggia 
or  along  the  coast  by  Rimini  and  Ancona.  When  the  fishermen 
come  to  Venice  very  early  on  Sunday  morning  to  mass  and  to 
market,  their  boats,  draped  with  loose-hanging  sails  and  drying 
nets,  are  moored  in  picturesque  masses  along  the  Riva  and  against 
the  wooded  banks  of  the  Public  Gardens.  They  look  like  a  row  of 
brilliant  butterflies  sunning  their  outspread  wings.  On  one  sail 
is  drawn  in  bright  colors  a  huge  Madonna.  On  another  is  a 
flying  horse.  Still  others  have  crosses,  circles,  or  bands  rudely 
sponged  upon  the  canvas.  The  forecastle  is  adorned  with  sacred 
paintings  and  carvings  and  an  angel  is  painted  on  either  side  of  the 
stern.  A  handsome  crew,  looking  and  talking  like  pirates  and  cut- 
throats, thus  dwell  amid  holy  pictures  and  images.  Each  sailor 
wears  an  amulet  around  his  neck.  At  the  masthead  swings  a 
tangled  flag-vane  decked  with  pious  emblems  and  surmounted 
by  the  cross. 

When  we  leave  the  broad  and  silvery  stretches  of  the  lagoon, 
the  gondola  glides  in  shallow,  smooth  waters  by  the  white  dome 
and  turrets  of  the  church  at  the  Campo  Santo.  Through  the 
dull  canals  of  Murano  amid  heavy-laden  barges  and  by  de- 
serted houses  we  come  to  the  lonely  tower  of  Torcello  keeping  its 
watch  over  wide  expanses  of  flat  and  marsh.  Remembering 


6  An  Architect's  Sketch  Book 

that  we  are  architects,  we  hastily  look  at  the  Byzantine  capitals 
and  ambones  in  the  chill,  death-stricken  church,  but  come  back, 
shuddering  at  the  damp  and  the  cold,  to  find  the  azure  sky,  the 
fresh  greensward,  the  distant  snow-clad  Alps,  and  the  far-stretch- 
ing luminous  waters  of  the  lagoon  more  beautiful  and  enchanting 
than  ever. 

A  huge  chimney  on  the  outside  of  one  house  near  the  canal 
attracts  us.  We  land,  and  a  whole  family  welcomes  us  to  a  table 
where  steaming  polenta  is  served  for  the  midday  meal.  This  great 
chimney  is  like  many  others  at  Burano  and  Chioggia.  It  serves 
a  fireplace  large  enough  to  have  windows  in  it  and  a  seat  all 
around  the  hearth.  You  can  walk  all  about  in  these  fireplaces, 
and  they  make  us  think  of  winter  evenings  and  Northern  climes. 

But,  after  all,  an  architect  does  not  visit  Venice  to  find  cozy 
nooks,  and  it  would  seem  as  if  even  the  enticing  green  lagoons 
should  not  call  him  away  from  such  a  city  of  palaces.  Sooner  or 
later  the  palaces  do  assert  their  right  to  admiration.  Then  one 
remarks  at  once  their  essentially  modern  character.  This  is  true 
even  of  the  fagades  of  the  Gothic  buildings,  for  they  are  free  and 
open,  with  rows  of  windows  and  airy  galleries,  —  really  modern 
fronts.  The  great  groups  of  windows  are  framed  in  with  broad 
bands  enriched  with  dogtooth  or  carving.  Colored  materials, 
such  as  serpentine  and  porphyry,  toned  by  time,  also  lend  them 
their  hues  and  the  mouldings  of  arch  and  balcony  and  cor- 
nice have  elegant  profiles.  There  is  no  rudeness  or  coarse  pictur- 
esqueness  such  as  often  characterizes  Northern  Gothic  work.  A 
front  like  that  of  Desdemona's  house  would  not  look  rough  or 


A  Venetian  Day  7 

uncouth  nor  out  of  keeping  with  life  in  any  city  of  to-day.  We 
see  in  it  the  Northern  Gothic  detail  become  polished  and  re- 
fined and  modern.  No  wonder  that  when  the  English  Gothic 
revival  was  at  its  height,  fifty  years  ago,  its  disciples  drew  in- 
spiration from  Venice.  Without  such  help  they  found  it  a 
difficult  problem  to  translate  an  English  or  French  mediaeval 
fagade,  with  great  wall  surfaces  and  a  few  pointed  windows,  into 
a  modern  front  where  the  essential  thing  is  to  permit  floods  of 
light  to  penetrate  a  deep  building. 

But,  floating  down  the  Grand  Canal,  we  also  pass  one  by  one 
the  great  Renaissance  palaces.  Again  we  are  struck,  as  in  the 
case  of  those  of  the  Gothic  period,  with  their  modern  spirit. 
There  are  good  models  for  the  great  buildings  of  to-day  among 
these  rich,  well-lighted,  stately  fronts.  Yet  to  any  one  who  has 
been  studying  Renaissance  detail  at  Urbino  or  Rome  or  among  the 
tombs  of  Florence,  and  who  has  recognized  Donatello  and  Mino 
da  Fiesole  as  the  masters  of  such  work,  the  carving  even  on  the 
purest  and  best  Renaissance  work  in  Venice,  beautiful  though  it 
be,  is  yet  a  disappointment.  We  can  say  this  even  remembering 
the  dainty  work  that  covers  the  church  of  the  Miracoli.  It  may 
be  the  material  in  which  it  is  wrought,  or  it  may  be  the  touch  of 
the  workman,  but  despite  its  amount  and  richness  there  is  some- 
thing hard  and  mechanical  about  even  the  Early  Renaissance 
carving  in  Venice.  It  falls  far  short  of  the  Florentine  and  Roman 
standard.  Perhaps,  as  the  Venetian  architecture  is  so  largely  one 
of  incrustation  and  of  applied  and  inlaid  marbles,  we  uncon- 
sciously miss  in  it  the  serious  solid  stonework  of  Florence  and 


8  An  Architect's  Sketch  Book 

Rome,  or  the  rugged  qualities  of  the  terra  cotta  found  in  more 
northern  cities.  To  be  sure,  the  great  later  palaces  of  Venice 
are  built  of  solid  stone,  but  in  them  the  carving  is  distinctly 
bad.  We  should  be  glad  to  find  there  what  we  criticise  in  the 
earlier  buildings.  Except  at  Sansovino's  stately  library  the 
carvings  and  the  details  of  the  late  work  are  clumsy  and  out  of 
scale.  We  wish  that  their  superb  masses  were  marked  by  such 
mouldings  and  carvings  as  adorn  the  Cancelleria  or  the  Farnese 
palaces  in  Rome,  or  the  Pandolfini  and  Rucellai  palaces  in  Flor- 
ence. We  look  in  vain  for  the  dainty  architectural  details  that 
Bramante  and  Alberti  and  Peruzzi  would  have  used. 

Then  after  wondering,  as  we  pass  along  the  Grand  Canal,  how 
the  architects  of  these  imposing  piles  were  satisfied  with  such 
clumsy  detail,  we  enter  the  grand  apartments  in  the  Doge's 
Palace.  Here  Scamozzi  and  Palladio  and  Sansovino  worked 
hand  in  hand  with  Tintoretto,  Veronese,  Titian,  and  Bonifazio, 
to  record  the  victories  and  the  glory  of  their  country.  All  over  the 
walls  are  paintings  of  the  naval  combats  of  Venice.  Galleys  with 
many  banks  of  oars  bear  down  upon  Saracens  or  Genoese.  Amid 
the  golden  frames  and  azure  skies  of  the  ceilings  Venice  sits 
enthroned,  and  the  heroes  and  heroines  both  of  Parnassus  and  of 
the  Old  Testament  lend  their  vigorous  presence  to  give  color  and 
life  to  the  decorations.  Nowhere  have  painter,  carver,  and  archi- 
tect worked  in  better  accord,  and  nowhere  with  more  brilliant 
results.  What  a  stately  series  of  chambers !  What  combinations 
of  dark  paneling  and  gorgeous  gold  frames  and  decorative  color- 
ing! They  are  the  most  splendid  and  sumptuous  rooms  in 
Europe. 


j   A  Venetian  Day  9 

Venice  is  indeed  rich  in  buildings  the  first  sight  of  which  sends 
a  thrill  through  the  frame  and  which  become  indelibly  impressed 
on  the  memory.  True,  such  moving  architecture  is  to  be  found 
elsewhere.  One  does  not  forget  the  nave  of  Amiens  Cathedral,  as 
the  host  is  raised  and  solemn  stillness  broods  over  the  crowd  of 
worshipers;  or  St.  Paul's  dome  in  London,  looming  above  bridge 
and  river  and  city  into  the  murky  sky;  or  Saint-Ouen's  * 4 crown 
of  Normandy,"  shooting  its  tangled  traceries  high  above  roof  and 
pinnacle  out  of  the  green  treetops  in  the  little  wooded  park  at 
Rouen;  or  the  stately  grandeur  of  the  Farnese  Palace;  or  the  awe- 
inspiring  size  of  the  mighty  Coliseum.  Scenes  made  thus  effective 
by  architecture  are  to  be  met  with  throughout  Europe,  but  they 
are  more  abundant  in  Venice  than  in  any  other  city.  For  here  the 
church  of  St.  Mark,  within  and  without,  is  unique,  and  cannot 
be  compared  with  any  other  Christian  church ;  the  Salute  and  San 
Giorgio,  the  Ducal  Palace  and  the  Piazzetta,  are  certainly  objects 
of  wonderful  grace;  and  possibly,  to  the  architect,  the  interior  of 
the  Ducal  Palace  yields  to  none  of  them  for  the  impression  it 
leaves  of  grandeur  and  stateliness. 

They  let  us  wander  at  will  around  the  lofts  and  galleries  of 
San  Marco.  All  through  those  "dim  caves  of  beaten  gold"  we 
can  keep  close  company  with  the  gaunt  long-robed  prophets,  the 
white-winged  angels,  the  martyrs,  and  the  patriarchs  set  in  that 
golden  firmament.  Below  we  see  the  worshipers  kneeling  in 
crowds  on  that  intricate  pavement,  and  our  eyes  try  to  pierce 
the  gloom  where,  under  the  baldacchino,  rest  in  splendor  the 
much-traveled  remains  of  St.  Mark. 


io         An  Architect's  Sketch  Book 

We  emerge  upon  the  outer  galleries  amid  the  forest  of  marble 
vegetation  and  the  statues  of  angels,  prophets,  and  saints.  We 
touch  the  Greek  horses  that  were  modeled  perhaps  in  the  days 
of  Pericles.  Then  we  look  down  with  a  momentary  surprise  on 
the  sunlit  piazza  bright  with  the  world  of  to-day,  the  smart  Ital- 
ian officers,  the  eager  tourists,  and  the  happy  children  from 
beyond  sea  feeding  the  fluttering  doves. 

To-day  there  is  festa  in  San  Marco,  and  an  unusual  vesper 
service  at  the  high  altar;  so  we  descend,  and  from  a  dark  corner 
watch  the  solemn  evening  pageant.  In  the  deep  shadows  of  the 
sanctuary  blaze  countless  lights.  The  aged  dignitaries,  in  rich 
and  sparkling  vestments,  move  here  and  there,  and  kneel,  and 
read.  Younger  attendants  serve  the  incense  and  reverently  bear 
the  great  books,  while  white-robed  men  in  the  high  balcony 
sing  the  vesper  music.  As  the  loud  organ  begins  to  grow  a  little 
wearisome  there  is  a  sudden  hush.  Then  on  the  stillness,  from 
far  aloft  above  the  sanctuary's  gloom,  is  heard  the  sweet  treble 
of  a  boys'  choir.  The  harmony  floats  through  the  golden  vaults; 
simple,  innocent,  solemn;  "trauncing  the  soul  with  chaunting 
choirs." 

The  organ  notes  cease.  The  day  dies.  We  grope  our  way 
through  the  darkly  glittering  church,  and  come  out  upon  the 
Piazzetta  to  find  the  outer  world  also  golden.  The  white  churches 
and  palaces  set  against  a  sky  of  gold  are  repeated  in  the  golden 
waters,  and  the  last  rays  of  the  setting  sun  permeate  and  glorify 
this  other  golden  miracle. 

Later,  when  darkness  falls  over  the  city,  we  turn  the  corner  of 


A  Venetian  Day  11 

Sansovino's  library  and  wander  across  the  Piazzetta.  The  black- 
ness of  the  sky  is  studded  with  stars,  and  above  San  Giorgio  is 
the  moon,  showering  light  on  the  surrounding  waters  and  defining 
in  dark  masses  the  island  church.  The  slender  tower  shoots  high 
above  that  long  line  of  nave  and  dome.  The  buildings  of  the 
port  and  the  convent  bring  down  the  composition  to  the  water- 
line.  Yes,  perhaps  the  interior  of  San  Giorgio,  though  correct  and 
refined,  is  cold.  Possibly  there  exists  in  the  obvious  faults  of  the 
fagade  some  feeble  justification  for  Mr.  Ruskin  when  he  says,  "It 
is  impossible  to  conceive  a  design  more  gross,  more  barbarous, 
more  childish  in  conception,  more  severe  in  plagiarism,  more 
insipid  in  result,  more  contemptible  under  every  point  of  rational 
regard.''  Yet  most  observers  must  avow  that,  whether  you  call  it 
scenic  effect  or  architecture,  a  great  thing  was  done  when  the 
architect  turned  this  wonderful  site  to  such  advantage  and  gave 
to  the  world  such  a  beautiful  and  graceful  church.  Poised 
between  the  sky  and  the  wide  waters  of  the  lagoon,  it  is  one 
of  the  few  groups  of  buildings  in  this  wide  world  which  most 
appeals  to  the  traveler  and  which  no  visitor  to  Venice  can  ever 
forget. 

The  night  advances.  Tattoo  is  sounded.  Across  the  moonlit 
waters  we  hear  the  bugles  respond  to  the  band  as  the  patrol 
marches  merrily  down  the  Riva.  We  look  over  to  San  Giorgio 
from  beneath  the  awnings  of  our  balcony.  The  reflection  of  its 
tower  comes  in  a  long  line  to  our  feet  across  the  rippling  water. 
Gondolas  flit  here  and  there  and  cross  the  track  of  the  moonlight. 
Tinkling  guitars  sound  from  the  barges.  A  tenor  on  the  steps  of 


12         An  Architect's  Sketch  Book 

the  Salute  sings.  From  far  up  the  canal  the  guitars  and  chorus 
send  an  answering  refrain.  Our  day  in  Venice  closes! 

"Venezia  benedetta  non  te  vogio  piu  lasar." 
So  sings  the  chorus  as  it  floats  away  into  the  night;  and  then  all 
is  silence,  save  for  the  sound  of  lapping  waves  and  the  distant 
warning  cry  of  a  belated  gondolier. 


The  Italian  Renaissance 


II 

THE  ITALIAN  RENAISSANCE 
1892 

OUR  little  party  of  architects  climbed  from  the  Adriatic 
to  the  heights  of  Urbino,  traveled  over  the  hills  of  Tus- 
cany, and  crossed  the  furrowed  plains  of  Lombardy;  together, 
also,  we  made  a  hurried  visit  to  Rome.  Thus  we  had  opportunity 
to  review  the  causes  of  the  wonderful  overturn  of  the  old  sys- 
tems which  we  now  call  the  Renaissance  of  architecture.  We 
saw  and  studied  the  work  done  in  those  fruitful  days  by  Brunel- 
leschi,  Alberti,  Bramante,  Peruzzi,  and  the  other  architects  of 
that  great  epoch. 

Though  we  are  often  told  that  Gothic  art  never  took  root  in 
Italy,  many  a  Gothic  arch  and  crocket  and  gable  show  that  it  had 
for  long  a  treatment  of  its  own  on  Italian  soil.  True,  if  Gothic 
architecture  be  held  to  be  a  complete  principle  of  construction,  to 
which  ornament  is  but  an  accessory,  we  must  promptly  agree  that 
neither  the  Italians  nor  any  other  people  except  its  French 
inventors  ever  thoroughly  mastered  its  principles.  But  one  can 
regard  architectural  detail  as  merely  a  decorative  expression,  and 
as  an  indication  of  the  trend  of  thought  of  those  who  use  it.  This 
is  all  the  substance  there  is  to  most  of  the  historical  "periods." 
Accepting  this  view,  we  must  admit  that  in  Italy  of  the  Middle 
Ages  pointed  architecture  was  universal,  and  its  detail  imbued 
with  native  peculiarities.   In  mediaeval  Florence  the  Gothic 


16         An  Architect's  Sketch  Book 

tower  of  the  Palazzo  Vecchio  looked  down  on  the  stir  and  the 
strife,  the  pageants  and  the  troubles  of  the  city.  Above  the 
Florentine  Duomo  the  bells  rang  notes  of  triumph  or  alarm,  of 
joy  or  sadness,  from  amid  the  spiral  shafts  and  pointed  arches 
of  Giotto's  Gothic  belfry.  Siena  even  to-day  remains  a  Gothic 
city.  Its  narrow  streets  are  closed  in  with  mediaeval  palaces  and 
the  shadow  of  its  slender  clock-tower  tells  off  the  hours  on  the 
fronts  of  Gothic  houses  encircling  its  great  piazza.  Perhaps  the 
spirit  of  the  Middle  Ages  has  clung  more  to  San  Gemignano 
than  to  any  other  Tuscan  city.  The  Renaissance  left  little  mark 
upon  it,  and  there  has  been  hardly  a  change  since  the  days  when 
Dante  trod  its  streets.  Pointed  arch  and  cusp  and  trefoil  abound 
there.  Above  steep  street  and  grim  palaces  the  city  still  "lifts 
to  heaven  her  diadem  of  towers."  These  lofty  eyries  are  so  un- 
changed that  in  fancy  we  easily  garrison  them  with  the  rioting 
factions  of  the  Salvucci  and  Ardinghelli  hurling  rocks  and  blazing 
pitch  from  tower  to  tower.  These  abundant  remains  on  all  sides 
indicate  that  although  Tuscany  was  the  birthplace  of  the  Renais- 
sance, it  for  centuries  had  neglected  its  classic  traditions  and 
bore  a  thoroughly  mediaeval  character. 

Not  far  away,  however,  from  these  mediaeval  Gothic  cities  lies 
Montepulciano,  one  of  those  Tuscan  towns  where  the  Renais- 
sance spirit  had  free  play.  It  is  remote  from  the  railroad,  and, 
like  so  many  of  its  neighbors,  clings,  shaggy  and  gray,  to  the 
mountain  top.  For  two  hours  we  toil  upwards.  In  the  mists  far 
below  us  are  the  green  waters  "of  reedy  Thrasymene,"  and  the 
broad  plain  that  beheld  the  triumph  of  Carthage  stretches  far  to 


The  Italian  Renaissance  17 

where,  in  the  haze,  lie  Siena  and  the  heights  of  Perugia  and  Arezzo. 
The  main  street  of  the  town  climbs  steep  between  crowded 
buildings  to  the  battlemented  tower  of  the  Palazzo  Publico,  which 
crowns  the  city.  On  the  sides  of  the  little  square  and  down 
the  narrow  streets  are  Renaissance  palaces.  The  church  of  San 
Biagio  is  a  successful  example  of  the  Renaissance  domed  church 
with  four  short  arms.  If  in  San  Gemignano  we  see  a  town  that 
stopped  building  with  the  advent  of  the  Renaissance,  its  neigh- 
bor, Montepulciano,  indicates  what  happened  to  those  which 
prospered  and  built  when  classical  forms  began  to  meet  with 
favor.  Still  more  is  this  apparent  in  the  little  town  of  Pienza. 
Here  was  born  ^Eneas  Sylvius  Piccolomini,  who  finally  became 
Pope  Pius  II,  and  whose  history  forms  the  subject  of  Ghirlan- 
daio's  frescoes  on  the  walls  of  the  library  at  Siena.  Before  its 
prosperous  son  returned  to  it,  as  well  as  after  he  left  it,  the  town 
must  have  been  a  very  humble  one,  for  there  is  nothing  in  it  now 
of  any  interest  to  the  traveler  except  the  little  square  that  is  sur- 
rounded by  the  papal  buildings.  Here  a  Renaissance  cathedral 
faces  a  public  palace.  The  classic  dwelling  of  the  Pope  is  vis-a- 
vis to  that  of  the  Bishop.  The  whole  group  surrounding  the 
piazza  is  interesting,  as  being  the  plaything  of  a  church  dignitary 
who  lived  in  the  full  tide  of  the  Renaissance,  and,  like  his  fellows, 
enjoyed  the  building  arts. 

These  classic  houses  of  Montepulciano,  its  church  of  San 
Biagio,  and  the  piazza  of  Pienza,  found  in  the  midst  of  mediaeval 
Tuscany,  illustrate  how  promptly  and  decidedly  the  Renaissance 
spirit  appealed  to  the  Italian  mind  of  the  fifteenth  century;  and 


is         An  Architect's  Sketch  Book 

what  seemed  to  us  most  remarkable,  here  and  throughout  Tus- 
cany, was  the  sweeping  manner  in  which  all  Gothic  and  mediaeval 
traditions  appear  to  have  been,  not  only  forever,  but  at  once 
overturned  in  these  their  strongholds.  With  ever-increasing 
surprise  we  recognized  the  strength  and  spontaneity  with  which 
the  new  spirit,  almost  full  grown,  took  immediate  possession  of 
the  world. 

This  Renaissance  of  classic  architecture  began  in  Florence, 
under  Brunelleschi  and  Alberti.  Later,  in  the  north,  another 
school  arose  in  Milan,  under  Bramante,  and  these  two  branches 
finally  met  and  produced  their  highest  results  at  Rome.  We  tried 
to  trace  these  schools  in  their  respective  fields,  and  it  was  of 
course  in  Florence  itself  that  we  found  the  visible  first  fruits  of  the 
Renaissance,  so  far  as  architecture  is  concerned.  At  Pisa,  it  is  true, 
we  saw  how  Nicholas,  the  sculptor,  had  drawn  inspiration  from 
ancient  Roman  models  for  the  figures  on  his  pulpits;  but  the 
Gothic  carvers  of  the  fagades  of  Paris  and  Amiens  had  done  as 
much  a  hundred  years  earlier,  and  the  wonder  is  that  artists  and 
craftsmen  should  ever  have  ceased  to  cherish  and  assimilate  the 
ancient  work  by  which  they  were  surrounded,  and  which  was  so 
far  beyond  their  own  powers.  Apparently,  however,  for  a  hundred 
years  after  Nicholas  of  Pisa,  men  paid  no  heed  to  the  architectural 
monuments  of  antiquity  around  them.  The  real  awakening  came 
almost  simultaneously  to  collectors,  who  were  eager  for  jewels, 
coins,  and  ivories  from  Greece  and  Rome;  to  scholars,  who  with 
avidity  sought  the  classic  manuscripts  which  until  then  had  been 
buried  in  the  monasteries;  to  painters  and  sculptors  and  archi- 


The  Italian  Renaissance  19 

tects,  who  suddenly  saw  beauty  in  the  models  of  classical  anti- 
quity, and  strove  to  graft  the  antique  traditions  on  the  civiliza- 
tion of  their  own  time.  What  the  French  sculptors  of  the  twelfth 
century  strove  to  imitate;  what  Nicholas  of  Pisa  faintly  saw  in 
the  thirteenth  century;  what  Petrarch  at  Padua,  and  Giotto, 
Orcagna,  and  Simone  Memmi  in  Tuscany,  found  in  the  classics  to 
delight  them  in  the  fourteenth  century,  all  this  finally  took  form 
with  the  quattro-centists,  and  was  spread  by  many  helping  spirits 
over  Tuscany  and  the  world.  As  for  architecture,  this  movement 
began  in  Florence,  and  the  return  to  detail  carefully  studied  upon 
the  ancient  Roman  models  was  abrupt  and  without  transition. 
Brunelleschi's  was  the  guiding  active  mind,  the  Medici  gave  the 
opportunities,  Donatello's  refined  genius  inspired  the  decora- 
tion. The  spirit  of  the  Renaissance  gradually  became  a  patriotic 
fervor.  Men  thought  they  had  reclaimed  their  inheritance  from 
the  Caesars,  and  wondered  that  they  had  ever  fallen  away  from 
the  wonderful  models  all  around  them. 

The  hill  country  of  Tuscany  had  appeared  to  us  a  rude  and 
savage  nursery  for  the  culture  and  refinement  of  modern  civiliza- 
tion, but  the  same  cannot  be  said  of  the  Val  d'  Arno.  On  the  con- 
trary, it  seemed  but  fitting  that  from  such  surroundings  should 
come  dignity  and  refinement.  Its  setting  of  hill  and  farm,  of 
river  and  verdure,  gives  to  the  " City  of  the  Lily"  half  of  its 
charm.  What  walks  and  drives  we  take  in  these  early  spring  days 
by  the  wooded  banks  of  the  Arno,  where  men  are  filling  their 
long-prowed  shallops  with  sand,  and  where,  beneath  the  trees, 
across  the  wide  stretches  of  river,  we  get  glimpses  of  the  city's 


go         An  Architedt's  Sketch  Book 

domes  and  towers!  We  have  to  shut  our  eyes  to  the  signs  of 
modern  progress  in  the  close  neighborhood  of  the  city,  but  soon 
we  find  ourselves  where  boughs  of  flowering  peach  and  almond 
hang  over  the  walls  that  border  the  roads.  Then  we  emerge 
among  the  green  fruitful  fields.  The  broad  roofs  and  white  walls 
of  villa  and  farmhouse  are  backed  by  dark  and  slender  cypresses, 
and  beneath  the  vines  that  are  festooned  from  tree  to  tree  the 
ground  is  bright  with  anemone  and  poppy,  with  cowslip  and  prim- 
rose. We  climb  the  hills  above  these  fertile  plains,  through  olive 
orchards  and  oak  woods,  to  the  heights  of  Fiesole,  and  look  away 
over  dark  pine  grove  and  rocky  hillside,  and  across  the  hazy 
checkered  plains,  to  purple  mountains.  Far  beneath  us,  the 
silver  thread  of  the  Arno,  winding  swiftly  by  field  and  farm, 
divides  the  widespread  city,  where  rise  Arnolfo's  palazzo  and 
Giotto's  campanile  and  the  vast  mass  of  Brunelleschi's  dome. 

Perhaps  the  youthful  Brunelleschi  made  his  famous  journey 
to  Rome,  in  1403,  in  hope  of  learning  from  ancient  examples  how 
to  roof  the  great  church  that  Arnolfo  and  Giotto  had  left  unfin- 
ished. At  all  events,  he  and  Donatello  spent  three  years  in  Rome 
together,  measuring  and  sketching,  and  returned  full  of  an  en- 
thusiasm about  all  they  had  seen,  which  had  far-reaching  conse- 
quences. The  huge  dome  with  which  Brunelleschi  later  crowned 
the  church  is  always  spoken  of  as  the  great  work  of  the  Early 
Renaissance.  A  great  work  it  surely  is,  but  possibly  less  a  work 
of  the  highest  art  than  a  great  engineering  feat.  His  contem- 
poraries were  amazed  at  it  as  a  work  of  construction.  Alberti, 
for  instance,  generously  praised  it,  but  chiefly  because  such  a 


The  Italian  Renaissance  21 

wonder  was  built  without  the  aid  of  wooden  centring.  Its  bar- 
ren grandeur  certainly  suggests  little  artistic  excellence  except 
such  as  it  obtains  from  immense  size.  It  was,  without  doubt,  the 
first  great  dome  of  its  kind,  and  the  prototype  of  innumerable  later 
and  of  some  better  designs;  but  whatever  impressiveness  it  now 
has  is  due  to  its  being  a  vast  and  capacious  object.  In  Florence, 
Brunelleschi  as  a  constructor  and  engineer  was  visible  in  this  enor- 
mous barren  dome,  but  to  find  Brunelleschi  the  artist,  the  original 
inspiring  spirit  of  Renaissance  architecture,  we  had  to  seek  him  in 
the  churches  of  San  Lorenzo  and  Santo  Spirito.  In  these  pure 
and  simple  works,  antique  colonnades  take  the  place  of  Gothic 
piers,  and  classic  caissoned  ceilings  are  the  substitute  for  Gothic 
vaulted  roofs.  Every  ornament  not  rigidly  architectural  is 
excluded,  and  what  remains  is  chaste  and  simple  and  strictly  after 
classic  Roman  models.  The  rugged  walls  of  the  Pitti  Palace,  also 
due  to  Brunelleschi,  are  broad  and  grandiose,  though  devoid 
of  ornament;  but  in  the  Pazzi  Chapel,  which  forms  one  side  of 
the  cloister  of  Santa  Croce,  we  find  him  using  dainty  and  elabo- 
rate classic  ornament.  His  immediate  predecessors,  who  were 
mainly  decorators,  had  cared  for  infinite  detail,  no  matter  to 
what  extent  it  might  mask  fundamental  constructive  form. 
We  see  such  work  in  the  incrustations  of  Giotto's  campanile, 
and  of  the  duomos  at  Orvieto  and  Siena.  From  these  influences 
Brunelleschi's  simple  and  clear  methods  led  men's  minds  not  only 
to  the  new  fashion  of  ancient  classic  detail,  but  to  more  logical 
architectural  methods. 

During  a  brief  period  Florence  abounded  in  designers  who 


22         An  Archite&t's  Sketch  Book 

followed  in  the  steps  of  Brunelleschi.  The  city  is  not  so  changed 
but  that  imagination  readily  peoples  it  with  the  rich  and  ardent 
life  of  these  early  days  of  the  Renaissance.  We  can  forget  for  the 
moment  the  fresh  Italian  regiments  treading  these  old  gray 
streets  to  the  merry  notes  of  their  bugles,  and  see  in  their  places 
the  bright-garbed  crowds  that  Benozzo  Gozzoli,  and  Masaccio, 
and  Masolino,  and  Fabriano  depict;  Poggio  with  manuscripts 
cunningly  rifled  from  monastery  libraries,  Delia  Robbia  dreaming 
of  his  blue-and-white  Madonnas,  Fra  Angelico  seeing  brilliant 
angels  in  the  golden  sunsets  down  the  Arno,  Ghiberti  designing 
his  portals,  Donatello  modeling  his  statues,  Mino  da  Fiesole 
carving  tomb  and  pulpit  and  altar,  Michelozzo  and  Sangallo 
directing  the  building  of  palace  and  of  church.  Alberti's  generous 
letter,  praising  the  work  of  his  friends,  Brunelleschi,  Delia  Robbia, 
and  Masaccio,  suggests  the  enthusiasm  which  prevailed  among 
this  emulous  band  of  artists.  Their  labors  can  be  traced  in  all 
the  towns  about  Florence.  At  Prato  we  find  the  classic  elegance 
of  Sangallo's  work  in  the  church  of  the  Carceri.  We  see  at  Rimini 
and  elsewhere  the  gracious  and  elegant  work  of  that  most  pic- 
turesque personality,  Alberti,  —  that  canon  of  the  church  who 
embraced  the  Renaissance  sentiment  with  such  fervor  that,  far 
from  being  content  with  an  inspiration  gained  from  antiquity,  he 
dreamed  of  a  definite  restoration  of  pagan  life  and  a  reestablish- 
ment  of  the  ancient  civilization.  But,  after  all,  the  astonishing 
thing  to  note  everywhere  about  the  Tuscan  Renaissance  is  the 
rapidity  with  which  it  reached  maturity.  When  Brunelleschi  and 
his  comrades  left  the  field  to  their  successors,  little  remained  to  be 


The  Italian  Renaissance  23 

done  on  the  lines  they  had  laid  down.  Broadly  speaking,  they 
anticipated  the  greater  part  of  what  was  perfected  during  the 
next  hundred  years. 

While  the  Florentine  school  had  been  pursuing  the  course 
mapped  out  by  Brunelleschi,  another  school  and  another  master 
had  been  at  work  in  the  north.  In  Milan  and  its  neighborhood 
we  can  trace  and  study  the  early  work  of  Bramante.  There 
are  many  buildings  in  the  flat  Lombard  country  designed  either 
by  him,  or  by  pupils  so  near  to  him  that  they  are  truly  Bra- 
mantesque.  In  the  main  they  are  a  little  disappointing.  The 
Bramante  of  this  period  is  a  shadowy  sort  of  person,  vaguely 
recognized  as  a  power  working  for  elegance,  proportion,  and 
daintiness.  One  gains  the  impression  that  he  made  sketches 
which  were  carried  out  more  or  less  imperfectly  by  others.  Per- 
haps the  school  reached  its  highest  perfection  in  the  Incoronata 
of  Lodi,  where  to  the  delicate  Bramantesque  detail  is  added  the 
charm  of  faded  pale  frescoes  and  golden-vaulted  ceilings  picked 
out  with  strong  red  and  blue. 

In  1493  misfortune  overtook  Bramante's  patron,  and  in  1499 
Bramante  left  Milan  for  Rome.  His  successors  in  Lombardy  paid 
less  heed  to  that  purity  and  simplicity  of  style  which  had  dis- 
tinguished him.  The  later  work  of  this  Milanese  school  is  seen  in 
the  richly  carved  and  incrusted  fagades  of  the  Certosa  at  Pavia. 
Bramante,  however,  at  the  age  of  fifty-five,  infirm  and  unable  to 
draw,  now  in  Rome  first  saw  the  Pantheon,  the  Coliseum,  the 
Baths  of  Diocletian.  His  spirit  was  ardent  enough  to  be  stirred 
by  the  genius  of  antiquity.  Abandoning  his  Milanese  past  he 


24         An  Architect's  Sketch  Book 

changed  his  whole  course  and  became  imbued  with  the  antique 
classic  spirit  to  a  degree  attained  before  only  by  Brunelleschi. 
In  Rome  he  built  in  stone,  and  not  in  brick  and  terra  cotta.  At 
the  papal  court  his  clients  were  both  rich  and  cultivated.  In 
that  capital  he  spoke  to  the  world.  Under  such  influences,  he  as 
naturally  arrived  at  being  great  as  before  he  had  been  pleasing. 
So  we  find  him  at  the  Palazzo  della  Cancelleria,  the  Palazzo 
Giraud,  and  finally  in  the  whole  scheme  of  the  Vatican  courts 
and  the  church  of  St.  Peter.  His  early  training  enabled  him  to 
add  some  thing  of  the  variety  and  force  and  charm  of  northern 
and  mediaeval  work  to  the  majesty  of  ancient  building.  To 
him  it  was  given  not  only  to  see,  but  to  found,  one  school  in  the 
freshness  of  the  Early  Renaissance  in  North  Italy,  and  another  in 
its  zenith  in  Rome. 

Although,  as  we  have  said,  the  Renaissance  of  architecture  took 
its  rise  in  the  Florence  of  Brunelleschi  and  Alberti,  and  was  nur- 
tured in  Milan  by  Bramante,  most  of  its  great  masters  sooner  or 
later  were  attracted  to  the  Eternal  City.  Peruzzi  there  added  to 
the  elegance  of  Bramante  a  richness  and  sumptuousness  that  the 
latter  never  permitted  to  himself.  His  work  marks  the  high- 
est standard  of  the  Early  Renaissance. 

Almost  directly  after  his  day  the  sway  of  Michael  Angelo 
began.  Much  of  his  architecture  is  certainly  careless  and  un- 
finished; such,  for  instance,  as  that  which  we  see  at  the  Medici 
tombs,  or  as  his  meaningless  staircase  at  the  Laurentian  Library. 
We  cannot,  however,  forget  that  he  designed  the  mighty  cornice 
of  the  Farnese  Palace,  and  that  his  hand  "rounded  Peter's 


The  Italian  Renaissance  25 

dome."  But  his  example  had  the  strongest  and  most  lasting 
influence  through  his  use  of  the  great  orders.  Many  of  us  may 
regret  that  the  Early  Renaissance  was  turned  aside  into  other 
paths  before  it  had  attained  complete  results.  Most  of  us  find 
delight  in  the  fanciful  and  poetic  phase  of  its  history,  when  to 
the  love  of  antique  form  were  joined  the  consummate  skill  and 
graceful  fancy  which  covered  pilaster  and  panel,  capital  and 
architrave,  church  stall  and  marriage  chest,  with  leaf,  tendril, 
and  flower,  and  a  multitudinous  world  of  real  and  imaginary  ani- 
mal forms.  All  these  and  the  color  that  enlivened  them  passed 
away  with  the  earlier  school,  but  the  close  study  of  the  orders 
which  succeeded  to  it,  and  the  rigid  dependence  upon  them  of 
the  artists  of  the  Late  Renaissance,  had  its  peculiar  merit.  It 
was  certainly  architecture  pure  and  simple,  depending  in  no 
way  on  other  allied  arts.  Its  effects  were  due  wholly  to  propor- 
tion, harmony,  and  a  nice  study  of  architectural  detail.  In  the 
hands  of  these  masters  such  qualities  were  not  arrived  at  by 
means  as  mechanical  as  Mr.  Ruskin  would  have  us  think.  The 
masters  of  the  Renaissance  never  agreed  among  themselves  on  the 
proportion  proper  for  an  order.  The  ancients  used  every  variety 
of  proportion.  In  fact,  good  classic  design  with  the  orders  requires 
even  now  individual  judgment  and  offers  liberty  but  not  license. 
And  so  let  us,  not  heeding  Mr.  Ruskin,  reckon  Scamozzi  and 
Sansovino  and  Palladio  and  the  other  masters  of  the  later 
Renaissance  not  as  mechanical  imitators  but  as  great  artists. 

As  the  Renaissance  was  in  its  origin  a  modern  movement,  so  it 
has  remained  the  foundation  for  modern  art.  It  quickly  estab- 


26         An  Archite&s  Sketch  Book 

lished  a  type  for  modern  palatial  architecture  in  the  frowning 
strength  of  the  Florentine  palaces  and  in  the  dignity  and  elegance 
of  those  of  Rome,  while  the  later  palaces  of  Venice,  if  somewhat 
vulgar  in  detail,  are  still  models  for  modern  palatial  work. 

In  church  architecture,  however,  the  Early  Renaissance  never 
reached  a  final  or  consummate  result.  At  the  very  outset  Brunel- 
leschi  gave  an  elegant  classic  dress  to  the  ancient  Gothic  forms, 
but  the  most  enthusiastic  could  scarcely  claim  that  he  surpassed 
the  mediaeval  solution  of  the  same  problem.  Perhaps  he  intended 
to  have  color  adorn  those  rather  chilly  interiors;  and,  set  off  by 
gold  and  fresco,  their  elegant  detail  would  have  given  richer 
results.  During  the  entire  Renaissance  period  the  favorite  scheme 
for  a  church  was  a  domed  building  with  short  projecting  arms. 
There  are  many  dainty  examples  of  this  idea  around  Milan 
worked  out  under  the  influence  of  Bramante.  Indeed,  such  was 
Bramante's  design  for  St.  Peter's;  but  one  architect  after  another 
changed  and  marred  the  design  of  that  mighty  building.  Now 
we  can  only  guess  what  might  have  been  the  perfected  result 
of  Renaissance  church  building. 

Our  party  are  all  familiar  with  Rome,  but  we  spend  one  won- 
derful Easter  Day  there.  As  we  traverse  its  streets,  the  whole 
history  of  the  Renaissance  architecture  we  have  been  studying  is 
passed  in  review.  Here  stand  before  us  not  only  the  highest 
results  of  that  art,  which,  as  we  have  seen,  came  to  Rome  from 
Florence  and  Milan,  but  also  the  ancient  classic  models  which  had 
inspired  both  Florentine  and  Milanese.  It  is  a  wonderful  experi- 
ence. True,  it  is  not  the  Rome  best  known  to  the  oldest  of  our 


The  Italian  Renaissance  27 

party;  the  Rome  of  the  Great  Council,  when  the  streets  were  full 
of  the  state  coaches  of  dignitaries;  when  St.  Peter's  was  bril- 
liant with  processions;  when  the  Pope,  borne  aloft  beneath  the 
ostrich  plumes,  was  followed  by  gray-bearded  patriarchs  and  red- 
robed  cardinals,  by  archbishops  and  bishops  beyond  numbering; 
when  Papal  Zouaves  made  the  streets  and  cafes  bright,  and  the 
Ghetto's  narrow  lanes  swarmed  with  picturesque  contadini;  when 
the  Tiber  flowed  between  marshy  banks,  and  death  lay  in  wait 
for  the  "forestieri"  who  dared  to  breathe  its  pestilential  miasma 
at  sunset.  Modern  improvements  have  despoiled  the  city  of  its 
picturesque  charm,  but  our  duty  to  humanity  compels  us  to  look 
upon  the  walled  river-banks,  the  wide  streets,  and  the  destruction 
of  dirt  and  filth,  if  with  regret,  yet  with  a  certain  approval. 

In  crossing  the  city,  our  road  lies  by  the  great  temples  and  the 
forums.  Accustomed  as  we  are  to  line-engravings  of  the  orders, 
and  to  hearing  ancient  Roman  architecture  described  as  mechani- 
cal and  inartistic  by  writers  like  Mr.  Fergusson,  it  is  invigorating 
to  get  a  fresh  look  at  the  real  thing,  as  we  do  in  the  Forum.  Where 
can  one  find  a  richer,  better  carved,  or  more  exuberant  decoration 
of  any  period  than  that  on  the  remains  of  such  a  building  as  the 
Temple  of  Concord?  The  freedom  and  juiciness  of  the  Early 
Renaissance  work  is  only  an  echo  from  the  work  of  Classic  days. 
One  appreciates  in  Rome  that  it  is  often  hard  to  distinguish  be- 
tween carvings  of  the  two  periods. 

But  our  drive  extends  beyond  the  Forum,  and  at  last  we  enter 
the  mighty  Coliseum.  How  humble  and  minute  we  feel  before  the 
tremendous  mass  of  that  immense  structure!  How  small  and 


28         An  Architect's  Sketch  Book 

insignificant  seems  the  work  that  engrosses  us  moderns!  One 
irreverent  thought  alone  upholds  us.  It  is  a  comfort  to  see  that 
the  giants  who  built  it  were  unable  to  roof  it.  A  paltry  patch  of 
velarium  to  keep  the  sun  from  the  Emperor's  eyes,  a  sad  trouble 
in  a  gale,  was  the  nearest  they  could  come  to  our  spider-web, 
wide-spanned  roofs. 

Later,  and  in  humble  mood,  we  continue  back  by  the  Forum 
and  the  Temples  and  the  Palaces  of  the  Caesars  to  the  neighbor- 
hood of  the  Renaissance  palaces.  We  pay  homage  to  Bramante 
at  the  Cancelleria  and  the  Giraud,  to  Peruzzi  at  the  Massimi,  to 
Sangallo  and  Michael  Angelo  at  the  overpowering  Palazzo  Far- 
nese.  The  sun  shines  brightly  as  we  reach  the  piazza  before  St. 
Peter's  Church.  The  fountains  on  each  side  of  the  obelisk  flash 
gayly.  Men  are  ringing  Easter  peals  with  tremendous  clangor  on 
the  tower  bells  as  we  join  the  crowds  moving  up  to  the  doors.  All 
this  fairly  intoxicates  us.  We  have  been  living  in  Florence  with 
such  austere  companions  as  Brunelleschi  and  Alberti  and  San- 
gallo, and  have  enjoyed  a  little  lighter  refreshment  amid  the  pic- 
turesqueness  of  Siena  and  San  Gemignano.  What  a  contrast  it  is 
when  we  pass  through  St.  Peter's  door,  and  there  bursts  on  our 
view  the  sumptuous  beauty  of  those  gold-and-white  ceilings,  the 
crowded  nave,  the  piers  decked  with  red  hangings,  the  great  choir 
singing  the  service,  and  the  cardinal  standing  at  the  lighted  altar. 
The  breath  catches !  Mr.  Fergusson  says  that  the  great  pilasters 
are  unmeaning,  offensive,  useless,  that  the  window  details  are  in 
the  worst  and  most  obtrusive  taste.  Perhaps  these  or  other  fla- 
grant defects  exist,  but  our  little  party  is  satisfied  to  ignore  them 


The  Italian  Renaissance  29 

as  we  sit  in  a  row  on  the  base  mouldings  of  those  very  pilasters, 
feeling  modest  and  small,  and  thankful  to  be  there. 

The  cleverness  of  modern  writers  has  not  yet  made  the  study  of 
the  English  of  Shakespeare,  of  Milton,  and  of  the  Bible  useless  to 
one  who  would  arrive  at  excellence  in  literary  style.  The  modern 
architect,  for  the  same  reasons,  studies  the  works  of  those  who 
were  not  only  the  masters  of  modern  architecture  but  its  very 
inventors.  Our  pilgrimage  among  their  buildings  is  now  a 
memory,  but  we  shall  not  forget  the  daintiness  of  the  Roman 
villas  or  the  grace  and  ornate  beauty  of  the  Roman  palaces. 
We  have  learned  respect  for  those  who  built  the  church  of  St. 
Peter  and  the  Palazzo  Farnese;  and  we  have  seen,  too,  with  our 
own  eyes,  how  closely  they  were  the  descendants  and  the  rightful 
heirs  of  those  earlier  giants  who  covered  the  Campus  Martius 
with  temple  and  portico  and  circus,  and  adorned  the  Palatine 
with  palaces;  who  built  the  forums,  and  vaulted  the  baths,  and 
domed  the  Pantheon,  and  who  raised  on  its  mighty  arches  the 
mass  of  the  Flavian  Amphitheatre. 


Rural  England 


Ill 

RURAL  ENGLAND 


1882 


SMART  trap  met  us  at  the  little  station.  Soon  we  were 


ii  bowling  along  over  hard  roads,  by  field  and  farm,  by  vil- 
lage inn  and  moss-grown  country  house  and  flowering  hedges; 
for  it  was  the  month  of  May,  and  our  driving-journey  through 
an  English  countryside  was  just  beginning. 

Although  we  were  two  architects  traveling  with  sketch  book 
and  camera,  and  in  spite  of  all  that  art  and  human  life  have  done 
in  England  to  interest  just  such  travelers,  it  was  nature  and  her 
handiwork  that  first  claimed  our  notice  and  our  intense  enthu- 
siasm. Coming  from  a  land  which  the  summer  sun  dries  and 
scorches,  we  were  charmed  by  this  humid,  changing  landscape. 
The  ever-varying  skies  were  now  bright  with  sunshine,  now  filled 
with  threatening  clouds.  Again  they  broke  in  drenching  showers 
that  called  forth  mackintoshes  and  rubbers,  and  then  again 
were  serene  and  fair.  The  roadside  turf  was  filled  with  daisies, 
the  hedgerow  sweet  with  hawthorn  and  later  with  wild  rose  and 
honeysuckle.  The  fields  showed  green  with  crops,  blood  red  with 
poppies  or  glowing  with  clover. 


"Not  a  grand  nature  .  .  . 


.  .  .  All  the  fields 


Are  tied  up  fast  with  hedges,  nosegay  like; 

The  hills  are  crumpled  plains  —  the  plains  parterres,  .  .  . 


34         An  Architect's  Sketch  Book 


And  if  you  seek  for  any  wilderness 

You  find,  at  best,  a  park.  A  nature  tamed 

And  grown  domestic  .  .  . 

A  sweet  familiar  nature,  stealing  in 

As  a  dog  might,  or  child,  to  touch  your  hand, 

Or  pluck  your  gown,  and  humbly  mind  you  so 

Of  presence  and  affection." 

Everywhere,  too,  were  evidences  of  an  open-air  life.  Our  first 
days  were  passed  in  a  hunting-country.  Each  wind  vane  was  a 
fox,  and  one  side  of  all  the  main  roads  was  finished  with  a  soft 
surface  for  horsemen.  Here  and  there  were  the  brick  kennels  for 
the  hunting-packs,  and  at  Taporley  the  inn  has  served  the  hunt 
dinner  for  the  last  one  hundred  years.  We  found  Chester  in  the 
midst  of  a  horse  fair.  Hundreds  of  horses  paraded  the  streets 
with  colored  tapes  and  wisps  of  straw  skillfully  woven  in  their 
tails  and  manes.  The  whole  scene  recalled  Rosa  Bonheur's 
familiar  picture.  At  Alcester,  where  we  stopped  for  lunch,  it  was 
market  day.  The  inn  was  full  of  farmers,  most  of  whom  had  come 
in  the  saddle  on  their  stout  cobs  to  the  sale  of  sheep  and  pigs. 
While  their  masters  stowed  away  beef  and  ale  in  the  inn,  the  nags 
crunched  their  corn  in  the  cobble-paved  and  brick-walled  stables. 
The  boys  played  cricket  on  the  commons,  and  twice  we  came  on 
great  bowling-greens,  where,  in  the  long  twilights,  the  villagers 
were  playing  at  bowls  and  making  wonderful  twisting  shots  across 
a  perfectly  level  circle  of  turf  perhaps  two  hundred  feet  in  dia- 
meter. Every  cottage  seemed  to  have  a  cared-for  garden  in 
which  old-fashioned  flowers  flourished.  The  hedges  were  trimmed 
and  cut  into  fanciful  figures  of  bird  and  beast  and,  at  the  larger 


Rural  England  35 


places,  the  lawn,  the  garden,  and  the  trees  received  the  same  care 
as  the  house  itself. 

But  if  nature  and  the  Englishman's  love  of  it  impressed  us 
beyond  anything  in  our  journey,  the  great  contrasts  of  wealth 
and  poverty,  of  vast  parks  and  huddled  towns,  of  grand  mansions 
and  damp  cottages  were  nearly  as  noticeable.  Rarely  in  England 
are  people  more  closely  crowded  together  than  in  the  back  and 
squalid  parts  of  Chester;  and  then,  just  across  the  river,  you  pass 
through  miles  of  beautiful  park  lands,  where  the  pheasants  and 
rabbits  of  the  Duke  of  Westminster  seem  better  off  than  many 
of  his  fellow  citizens  in  the  adjoining  town.  Near  Wrexham  we 
drove  by  the  high  walls  of  Wynstay  Park,  the  home  of  a  well- 
known  Welshman.  Here  again  a  beautiful  piece  of  country, 
shaded  by  great  trees,  is  inhabited  only  by  deer  and  wild  crea- 
tures; but  close  to  this  paradise  is  the  crowded  and  ugly  brick- 
making  town  of  Ruabon.  Thus,  throughout  the  country,  large 
tracts  of  fertile  lands  where  scattered  houses  are  infrequent  alter- 
nate with  crowded  and  huddled  towns.  A  poor  man  can  have  no 
land  on  which  to  keep  a  cow;  an  old  woman  tells  us  how  her  dis- 
couraged neighbors  have  emigrated;  no  laborer  is  permitted  to 
disfigure  the  landscape  with  a  new  home  of  his  own;  and  such 
evidences  that  England  is  no  place  for  a  poor  man  are  abundant. 
With  the  Great  West  and  Australia,  Canada  and  South  Africa, 
holding  out  great  prizes  to  the  energetic  poor,  one  wonders  that 
any  such  remain  in  a  country  where  the  chance  of  betterment  is 
so  very  small. 

It  is,  however,  resting  and  quieting,  to  us  whose  lot  is  cast  in  a 


36         An  Architedt" s  Sketch  Book 

land  of  progress  and  change,  to  find  the  shopkeeper  or  the  farmer 
having  no  apparent  wish  or  ambition  to  change  his  lot.  Such  a 
condition  is  natural,  no  doubt,  to  a  society  that  has  been  gov- 
erned by  the  few,  and  in  which  even  the  Church  has  instilled  in 
each  man  the  duty  of  being  contented  in  that  position  to  which 
God  has  called  him.  To  the  nervous  American  it  offers  a  new 
view  of  life,  and  a  calm  and  peaceful  one,  in  spite  of  the  thought 
that  the  gain  of  the  few  is  the  loss  of  the  many. 

When  we  forget  the  poor  man  and  his  surroundings,  there  is 
little  left  in  England  that  is  not  beautiful.  " Long  and  low"  are 
words  that  best  describe  the  elements  of  English  building  design. 
The  long,  low  walls  of  the  cathedrals  offer  striking  contrasts  to 
the  masses  of  masonry  that  tower  above  such  towns  as  Beauvais 
and  Amiens.  The  minute  entrances  at  Wells  have  little  rela- 
tionship with  the  gorgeous  portals  of  the  great  French  churches. 
Castles  like  Penshurst,  Stokesay,  and  even  Warwick  have  the 
same  English  qualities,  and  you  look  in  vain  among  them  for  the 
snap  and  dash  and  fire  of  the  French  chateaux,  such  as  Pierre- 
fonds  or  Falaise  or  Azay-le-Rideau,  with  their  conical  towers  and 
many-vaned  spirelets.  In  the  same  way,  also,  the  cottages  which 
throughout  England  blend  so  softly  and  so  picturesquely  with 
the  peaceful  landscape  have  widespread  homelike  roofs,  and  lie 
so  close  to  the  ground  that  you  step  down  into  most  of  them. 

Naturally  these  houses,  large  and  small,  were  a  subject  of  great 
interest  to  us,  and  we  soon  noticed  with  surprise  how  natural 
barriers,  like  a  great  hill,  had  once  caused  local  diversity  in 
building,  —  a  diversity  largely  continued  after  railroads  had 


Rural  England  37 

made  it  unnecessary.  Through  Cheshire,  timber-and-plaster 
farmhouses  alternated  with  brick  buildings.  On  leaving  Shrews- 
bury you  cross  a  lofty  hill  and  come  down  into  the  rough  stone 
village  of  Much  Wenlock.  Then  the  crossing  of  another  ridge 
brings  you,  at  Chipping  Norton  and  Woodstock,  into  towns  with 
house  fronts  of  cut  stone  like  those  in  France.  That  such  an 
obstacle  as  a  large  hill  should  make  this  serious  variation  in  such 
a  small  region  astonished  us. 

All  along  our  route  lay  castles,  once  the  defenders  of  the  Welsh 
Marches,  —  from  the  big  castles  at  Ludlow  and  Shrewsbury  to 
the  little  one  at  Stokesay.  The  latter  lay  in  a  fertile  valley  and  an 
ancient  timber-and-plaster  gatehouse  gave  access  to  it  through 
a  wall  inclosing  church  and  castle.  The  church  had  the  ordinary 
square  tower  with  mast  and  vane.  Within  was  an  old  Jacobean 
gallery  and  pulpit,  and  a  squire's  pew  where  the  high  wainscoted 
walls  were  open  only  at  an  arcade  surrounding  the  top.  A  wooden 
ceiling  covered  in  the  whole  pew.  In  such  a  structure  the  squire 
could  sleep  soundly  through  the  sermon  and  not  even  the  parson 
would  know  it.  The  castle  itself  had  a  fine  keep,  or  tower,  and  a 
roof  of  large  mossgrown  stone  slabs.  Its  great  guest  hall  was 
warmed  by  a  central  hearth,  from  which  the  smoke  curled  up  to 
the  open  timber  roof.  A  staircase  of  solid  oak  blocks  led  above, 
and  in  some  of  the  rooms  were  remains  of  richly  carved  mantels. 
Ightham  Mote,  in  Kent,  another  mansion  nearly  as  old  and  also 
possessing  a  grand  central  hall,  is  surrounded  by  a  moat  filled 
with  water  and  is  entered  by  a  bridge.  The  courtyard  within 
is  hemmed  in  by  gray  stone  walls  and  plaster  gables. 


38         An  Architect's  Sketch  Book 

When  the  need  had  passed  of  such  moats  and  towers  and  of  halls 
for  retainers  there  came  into  vogue  the  great  mansions  which  we 
see  illustrated  in  Richardson's  and  Nash's  books,  some  of  brick 
and  some  of  "post  and  pan,"  as  the  black  oak  and  white  plaster 
work  is  called.  Grim  wall  surfaces  gave  way  to  long  ranges  of 
mullioned  windows,  but  the  widespread  and  scattered  group  of 
buildings  without  striking  "motifs"  still  kept  the  national  long- 
and-low  look.  We  saw  many  such  mansions,  and  noticed  the 
cheery  sparkle  that  the  white  plaster  work  gave  to  a  green  land- 
scape, and  the  mellowness  of  an  old  brick  wall  set  in  great  trees. 
Again,  the  tile  roofs,  or  the  yet  more  beautiful  roofs  of  great  stone 
slabs,  assume  in  the  wet  atmosphere  such  varied  hues,  such  blot- 
ted-in  and  run-together  tones,  as  nature  never  lends  to  art  in  this 
bright  clear  land  of  ours.  Our  roofs  never  gain  the  mossy  cover- 
ing that  lends  the  great  charm  to  an  English  tile  roof.  It  is  so 
valued  in  England  that  we  heard  of  one  zealous  housebuilder  who 
had  given  his  new  walls  and  roofs  a  coat  of  flour  paste  and  the 
next  day  he  had  a  many-colored  growth  of  mould  on  his  tiles. 

In  the  Elizabethan  and  Jacobean  interiors  there  is  much  high 
oak  wainscoting  on  the  walls,  often  continuing  even  to  the  ceiling 
itself.  The  ceilings  are  covered  with  elaborate  plaster  work  in 
strap  or  rib  patterns  or  in  modeled  subjects.  Even  in  its  early 
days  the  oak  was  probably  very  dark,  and  the  plaster  work,  as 
now,  either  white  or  washed  in  some  creamy  tint.  Though  such  a 
contrast  of  black  and  white  sounds  raw,  yet,  with  surroundings  in 
harmony,  —  the  great  stone  fireplace,  the  hangings  of  tapestry  or 
other  coarse  fabrics,  and  the  lattice-paned  sashes,  —  these  rooms 


if 


Rural  England 


39 


are  the  most  homelike  and  delightful  in  the  world.  They  are  the 
rooms  that  we  all  love  as  Nash  illustrated  them.  They  possess 
a  quiet  charm  to  which  modern  decorative  art  seldom  attains. 

It  is  not  alone  the  grand  mansions  that  are  suggestive.  The 
small  country  and  village  houses  are  full  of  interest  for  the  pass- 
er-by.  But  in  entering  them  there  is  nearly  always  a  step  down 
to  a  brick  or  tile  floor  laid  on  the  earth.  For  picturesque  attrac- 
tion little  can  surpass  the  great  buttressed  chimney  that  serves 
both  the  ingle-nook  and  the  brick  boiler  in  which  ale  is  brewed 
and  the  clothes  are  boiled.  Lattice-panes  fill  the  windows,  and 
odd-shaped  dressers  are  decked  with  bright  tins  and  crockery. 
Whether  because  the  climate  favors  flowers  or  because  the  people 
are  fond  of  them,  every  cottage  has  its  neat  garden.  We  should  do 
well  to  catch  and  imitate  all  this  homelike  air  if  we  can,  but  not 
live  in  these  damp  and  stuffy  houses.  For  dryness  and  cleanliness 
and  as  healthy  homes  they  certainly  cannot  stand  comparison 
with  our  ugly  Yankee  cheap  wooden  cottages. 

The  towns  and  villages  are  full  of  alehouses;  cozy  little  places, 
with  swinging  signs  of  the  Blue  Bell,  the  Ship,  the  Mitre.  Each 
has  a  snug  bar  and  an  inner  kitchen,  where  sides  of  bacon  hang 
on  the  ceiling  beams;  where  the  walls  are  lined  with  high -back 
settles,  and  where  bootjacks  and  tankards  and  pewter  dishes  sug- 
gest possible  comfort  and  cheer.  As  we  sat  hastily  sketching  such 
a  room,  one  of  the  two  or  three  old  gaffers  watching  us  asked  if 
we  were  detectives;  because,  as  he  said,  we  seemed  to  be  " taking 
it  all  down."  Another  day  brought  us  better  luck,  and  our  well- 
appointed  trap  surprised  a  zealous  village  shopgirl,  who  was  sup- 


40         An  Archite&'s  Sketch  Book 

plying  us  with  photographs,  into  saying,  with  a  blush,  "Is  not 

this  Sir  Charles   ?"  — a  noble  being,  as  we  learned  at  the 

next  village,  who  was  then  expected  at  his  home  near  by. 

But  of  all  buildings  that  the  English  countryside  offers  for  our 
admiration  nothing  can  equal  the  village  church.  We  certainly 
never  realized  how  generally  it  is  to  be  found  in  the  English  vil- 
lages; rich  and  stately,  and  with  history  built  into  it;  with  ancient 
monuments  on  its  walls,  and  old  glass  and  stone  tracery  in  its 
windows.  The  houses  of  the  living  closely  nestle  around  it  and 
the  dead  sleep  in  its  shadow.  In  the  hill  country  sturdy  towers  rise 
from  the  gray  walls  of  these  ancient  temples,  and  lofty  spires  soar 
high  from  those  on  the  fens  and  the  plains.  At  Wrexham  we 
climbed  up  into  the  richly  decorated  tower,  and  found  the  great 
chime  of  bells  arranged  for  striking  by  means  of  hand  levers,  or 
for  ringing  peals  by  long  stirrups,  a  man  to  each  bell.  On  the  walls 
were  painted  and  gilded  tablets,  recording  how,  on  such  a  date, 
such  a  party  of  ringers  had  rung  so  many  changes  in  such  a  time, 
duly  attested  by  the  clerk.  Most  of  these  churches  are  reached 
by  a  path  among  the  graves  in  the  church-yard,  and  that  in  turn 
is  often  surrounded  by  a  wall  and  entered  through  a  picturesque 
lych  gate.  Nearly  always  the  ground  level  is  well  above  the 
church  floor,  suggestive  of  the  ages  through  which  it  has  received 
the  village  dead.  Generally  the  church-yard  is  neatly  cared  for, 
and  children  play  among  the  old  stones  and  call  to  one  another 
with  the  voices  that  in  both  women  and  children  we  so  often 
notice  as  musical  and  sweet. 

We  shall  long  remember  our  Sunday  in  Ludlow.  The  closely 


Rural  England  41 

peopled  hill  on  which  the  town  stands  is  flanked  by  a  great 
Edwardian  castle  and  crowned  by  the  high  tower  of  the  church. 
Early  in  the  morning  we  were  wakened  by  the  chimes  that,  ring- 
ing merrily  at  that  lofty  height,  made  a  rippling  melody  audible 
far  up  the  river  valley.  We  breakfasted  in  the  Jacobean  coffee- 
room,  and  then  the  town  seemed  with  one  accord  to  go  to  service. 
The  mayor  and  council  met  at  the  market-house  in  their  robes 
of  office,  and,  with  the  mace  carried  before  them  by  the  clerk, 
walked  to  church  and  sat  together  in  the  state  seats.  The  pretty 
maid  who  had  served  our  breakfast  hastened  away  after  them, 
and  so  did  the  landlord.  So  also  did  the  dissenting  anglers  with 
whom  we  had  breakfasted;  and  so  in  turn  we  wanderers  from 
remote  shores  followed  them  and  the  rest  of  the  town.  The 
little  surpliced  choir-boys  threw  their  youthful  spirits  into  the 
chants,  and  their  voices  rang  most  cheerily  in  the  stone  vaults  of 
the  tower.  The  large  congregation  took  up  their  part  of  the 
service  as  if  they  had  as  much  to  do  with  it  as  the  clergyman.  It 
seemed  as  if  such  surroundings  would  arouse  the  dullest  preacher, 
but  ours  was  probably  more  inured  to  the  influences  of  the  old 
church  than  we  were.  In  spite,  however,  of  his  dogmatic  plati- 
tudes, it  was  most  certainly  divine  worship  that  we  joined  in  on 
that  Sunday  morning.  We  were  glad  we  had  not  discovered  dis- 
senting chapels  or  meeting-houses.  As  far  as  we  knew,  we  wor- 
shipped with  all  the  town  folk  and  at  the  only  church. 

Though  we  had  often  heard  that  Chumley  as  a  family  name 
was  spelt  "  Cholmondeley,"  we  never  expected  to  be  bearers  of  a 
letter  with  that  odd  address.  We  hated  to  part  with  it  at  the 


42  An  Archite&t's  Sketch  Book 

great  gate  of  a  country-seat  which  may  stand  as  the  type  of  the 
remembrances  which  our  journey  left  with  us.  From  the  lodge  a 
sweeping  avenue  drove  up  to  the  fore  court  of  a  grand  symmetri- 
cal stone  house  of  the  Elizabethan  period,  with  great  ranges  of 
mullioned  windows,  and  terraced  walls  and  balustrades  of  a  semi- 
Italian  character.  Towards  this  entrance  side  of  the  house  all  the 
halls  and  corridors  opened;  and  on  the  other  or  lawn  side  were 
ranges  of  rooms  opening  by  mullioned  windows  to  stone  terraces 
and  to  a  view  over  a  widespread  lawn.  The  lofty  rooms  had  stone 
fireplaces,  and  paneled  wainscots,  and  modeled  ceilings,  some- 
what too  much  "done  up"  in  modern  times,  perhaps,  but  still  in 
good  historical  character.  In  the  upper  stories,  besides  the  family 
apartments,  were  long  ranges  of  visitors'  bedrooms,  with  a  little 
holder  on  each  door  for  the  occupant's  card.  After  we  had  stud- 
ied the  interior  of  the  mansion,  and  had  disposed  of  the  grand 
lady  who,  as  housekeeper,  did  us  the  honors,  but  who  was  not 
above  receiving  the  Queen's  money,  we  found  our  way  through 
the  intervening  hedge,  and  were  in  the  adjoining  church-yard,  with 
the  old  graves  and  the  crosses  and  the  sundial.  This  church,  like 
most  of  those  we  saw,  was  of  a  late  Gothic  period.  Within  it 
were  many  family  monuments;  here  a  statue  of  a  British  officer 
on  his  knees  holding  aloft  the  hilt  of  his  sword  as  a  cross;  there  a 
recumbent  alabaster  statue  of  a  lovely  young  wife.  The  church 
is  backed  by  heavy  dark  trees;  beyond  the  church-yard  gate  are 
the  sparkling  white  gables  of  an  old  oak-and-plaster  house,  and 
over  the  moss-grown  cottage  roof  proudly  stalked  a  peacock  with 
tail  wide  spread. 


Rural  England  43 


An  ancestral  mansion  with  stately  rooms  and  lawns  and  ter- 
races and  gardens;  a  cozy  farmhouse  embowered  in  trees,  with  the 
peacock  sunning  himself  on  the  roof;  an  ancient  village  church;  a 
peaceful  yew-shaded  churchyard;  the  tombs  of  rich  and  poor  for 
generations;  the  sundial  that  had  cast  its  shadow  so  many  quiet 
centuries;  the  rich,  pleasant  voices  of  the  few  passing  villagers,  — 
such  are  the  peaceful  memories  of  our  holiday  in  England. 


French  and  English  Churches 


IV 


FRENCH  AND  ENGLISH  CHURCHES 


1892 


LTHOUGH  the  mediaeval  churches  of  France  and  Eng- 


il.  land  were  built  by  men  of  the  same  faith  and  for  the  same 
Catholic  ritual;  although  England  was  long  under  a  French 
domination  and  a  large  part  of  France  was  for  one  or  two  hun- 
dred years  occupied  by  and  ruled  over  by  Englishmen;  yet,  be- 
cause national  traits  always  assert  themselves,  English  and 
French  churches  differ  as  much  as  if  an  ocean  parted  them  instead 
of  the  narrow  waters  of  the  English  Channel.  On  the  one  side  we 
find  both  cathedral  and  parish  church  modest,  long,  low,  and  pic- 
turesque, and  on  the  other  side  they  are  self-asserting,  aspiring, 
stately,  and  majestic.  The  English  buildings  are  set  amid  the 
green  of  cathedral  close  or  village  churchyard  and  blend  with  a 
rural  landscape.  Those  of  France  are  of  a  grander  type  and  rise 
from  stone-paved  streets  and  from  amid  the  burghers'  houses.  In 
fact  the  building  of  the  cathedrals  of  France  was  an  expression  not 
only  of  religious  feeling  but  also  of  the  struggle  for  civil  liberty. 
It  was  thus  that  the  king,  the  bishop,  and  the  people  of  France 
asserted  themselves  against  the  power  of  monk  and  abbot.  City 
vied  with  city  in  France  in  raising  each  a  more  glorious  shrine 
than  the  other.  But  no  such  civil  ambitions  gave  birth  to  the 
English  churches.  The  Englishman's  one  thought  seems  to  have 
been  to  make  his  temples  beautiful.  Perhaps  we  can  thus  in  part 


48       An  ArchitedVs  Sketch  Booh 

explain  why  the  distinguishing  and  precious  qualities  of  English 
work  are  found  in  quiet  beauty  and  picturesque  composition,  and 
why  the  French  buildings  join  consummate  constructive  skill  to 
majestic,  ambitious,  and  brilliant  work  in  the  arts  of  design. 

From  a  distance  we  see  the  towers  and  lanterns  of  Wells  rise 
above  rounded  masses  of  green  foliage.  When  we  reach  its  walls 
we  find  them  springing  from  emerald  lawns  and  embowered  in 
trees,  the  home  of  cawing  rooks  and  soaring  pigeons.  There  is 
nothing  in  France  like  the  picturesque  grouping  of  these  English 
buildings,  or  their  setting  of  close  and  cloister,  of  garden  and 
clipped  green  lawn  and  ancient  trees.  The  Frenchman  never 
formed  such  harmonious  features  of  church  and  scenery.  Here 
at  Wells  the  three  time-worn  towers  rise  high  above  us  and  group 
nobly  with  the  chapter  house  and  its  quaint  approaches,  with 
the  great  octagon  of  the  Lady  Chapel,  and  wTith  the  backing  of 
tall  trees.  Above  the  peace  of  the  bishop's  garden  and  terrace 
and  the  ivy-clad  palace  from  hour  to  hour  the  chimes  vibrate  and 
die  away:  — 

"Lord,  through  this  hour 
Be  thou  our  guide, 
That  by  thy  power 
No  foot  may  slide." 

What  an  abode  is  this  of  the  bishop's!  It  is  the  finest  example 
of  a  thirteenth-century  house  existing  in  England.  Indeed  it 
seems  a  lordly  habitation  for  a  priest  of  One  who  had  not  where  to 
lay  his  head.  With  the  New  England  minister,  who  saw  his  more 
favored  brother's  fields  and  farm  and  cattle  and  books,  we  ex- 
claim, "All  this,  and  heaven  too!" 


French  and  English  Churches  49 

The  decency  and  order  which  bring  to  such  perfection  the 
lawns  and  paths  and  trees  of  the  close  prevail  also  within  the 
church.  We  are  shown  by  the  verger  through  aisle  and  chapel 
peopled  only  by  the  effigies  of  those  who  lie  below,  and  we  feel 
troubled  that  a  building  raised  as  a  house  of  prayer  should  be 
treated  so  nearly  as  a  museum  of  mediaeval  art.  Where  are  the 
people  of  the  town,  its  rich,  its  poor,  the  thankful,  the  unhappy? 
Have  the  great  multitude  no  part  in  this  vast  temple  that  was 
built  that  they  might  worship  in  it?  We  think  of  the  West- 
minster verger  who  roughly  disturbed  the  devout  Catholic  as  he 
knelt  to  pray,  saying,  "Hif  this  sort  hof  thing  goes  hon,  we  shall 
soon  'ave  people  praying  hall  hover  the  habbey."  However,  there 
comes  an  hour  when  verger  and  visitor  cease  their  rounds.  At 
first,  as  we  but  dimly  catch  in  the  distant  hum  of  priestly  voice 
sonorous  Old  Testament  sentences  or  familiar  words  from  the 
Gospels,  we  feel  how  vain  is  the  attempt  to  gratify  in  these  vast 
and  echoing  buildings  a  Protestant  interest  in  sermon  and  book. 
But  as  the  fading  sunlight  shines  through  the  western  window 
and  casts  its  color  alike  on  the  few  living  worshipers  and  on 
tomb  and  boss  and  gray  stone  wall,  the  organ  notes,  "wandering 
and  lingering  on  as  loath  to  die,"  pulsate  through  the  stony  fabric, 
and  — 

"through  the  long-drawn  aisle  and  echoing  vault 
The  pealing  anthem  swells  the  note  of  praise." 

The  great  solemn  place  is  filled  with  the  sweetness  of  boyish 
voices.  We  heartily  join  in  the  long,  tuneful  "Amen"  as  it  rings 
down  the  empty  nave  and  echoes  back  again  from  distant  vault 


50        An  ArchitedP  s  Sketch  Book 

and  chapel.  Under  these  influences  we  see  anew  the  beauty  around 
us,  and  feel  that  if  the  Englishman  was  not  the  engineer,  the 
sculptor,  or  in  many  ways  the  ambitious  designer  we  find  in  the 
Frenchman,  he  surely  felt  to  the  utmost  the  "beauty  of  holiness," 
and  imprisoned  it  in  pier  and  vault  and  tomb  and  glass,  in  carved 
front  and  graceful  spire. 

Let  us  now  turn  from  the  gentle  and  pastoral  beauty  of  the 
English  cathedral  and  gain  a  closer  view  of  a  French  church. 
From  a  distance  we  see  it,  lofty  and  majestic,  overtopping  the 
steep-roofed  town.  Its  traceried  windows  are  so  huge  that  the 
masonry  between  them  seems  too  slight  to  carry  the  ceiling 
vaults.  It  is,  however,  steadied  by  countless  flying  buttresses 
which  cross  the  low  aisles  in  giant  leaps  and  carry  the  thrust  of  the 
stone  ceilings  to  those  high-pinnacled  piers  which  stand  in  ordered 
ranks  about  the  building.  At  the  east  end  these  splendid  scaf- 
foldings radiate  around  the  circular  apsis  and  span  its  chapels. 
Far  above  them,  over  the  crossing  of  nave  and  transept,  rises  the 
lofty  fleche,  enriched  with  pinnacles  and  statues,  its  silver- white 
lead  work  brightened  by  faded  color  and  gold. 

The  bishop's  palace  is  hard  by,  a  dignified  but  ascetic-looking 
abode,  and  the  dwellings  of  the  old  town  climb  upon  and  cling  to 
the  sides  of  the  church.  There  is  no  green  lawn,  no  quiet  close,  no 
cozy  dwelling  for  the  priests  joined  to  this  great  serious  structure, 
but  from  the  stone-paved  place,  where  white-capped  bonnes  and 
red-trousered  soldiers  gossip  and  chatter,  broad  steps  lead  to  the 
platform  before  the  three  cavernous  portals  of  the  cathedral. 

How  gloriously  peopled  are  these  triumphal  arches!  The 


French  and  English  Churches  51 

naive  sculptors  have  crowded  the  stonework  with  representa- 
tions of  the  virtues,  the  signs  of  the  zodiac,  the  handicrafts, 
and  the  employments  of  the  seasons.  Here  we  find  Adam  and 
Eve,  the  wise  and  foolish  virgins,  the  Magi,  the  Apostles,  and 
in  the  centre  is  portrayed  the  Last  Judgment  and  Christ  bearing 
the  Gospel.  Above  all  this,  ranks  of  angels  and  seraphim  fill 
the  retreating  arches  and  seem  to  join  in  the  Te  Deum  and  sing, 

"  To  thee  all  angels  cry  aloud; 
The  heavens  and  all  the  powers  therein." 

At  every  door  these  celestial  choirs  meet  over  your  head  as  you 
enter  the  church.  Above  the  crocketed  gables  and  pinnacles 
of  these  porches  stand  the  statues  of  Judah's  kings,  and  over 
them  story  upon  story  of  arcades  rise  around  the  great  rose  win- 
dow to  the  pointed  gable,  and  to  the  tops  of  the  two  towers  that 
long  have  waited  for  their  spires.  Crockets  and  leafage,  statue 
and  bas-relief,  gargoyle  and  pinnacle  are  scattered  over  this 
fagade  in  sufficient  abundance  to  furnish  two  or  three  such  fronts 
as  that  of  the  Somersetshire  cathedral.  All  is  in  key  with  the 
great  doorways  and  the  majestic  scaffold  of  buttresses.  All  is 
masculine  and  confident.  Everywhere  you  recognize  technical 
skill  and  brilliant  execution.  There  is  nothing  tentative  or  simply 
picturesque. 

It  is  Sunday,  and  the  vast  nave  is  thronged  with  ardent  wor- 
shipers, bowed  in  solemn  adoration  before  the  mysteries  of  the 
mass.  Around  the  entrances  and  in  secluded  aisles  there  is  stir 
and  movement.  People  come  and  go  with  utter  absence  of  self- 
consciousness.   The  city-dressed  son  escorts  his  country-clad 


52         An  Architect's  Sketch  Book 

parents.  Little  children  patter  about  the  doorways  in  their  clat- 
tering wooden  shoes,  and  offer  each  other  holy  water  with  their 
finger-tips.  The  inquisitive  visitor  stares  and  chatters.  The  beg- 
gars are  at  the  doors.  The  shrines  are  tawdry.  But  as,  alike  in 
village  and  town,  French  people  live  in  the  view  of  their  neigh- 
bors and  do  not  mind  trifles,  so  these  little  incidents  seem  in  no 
wise  to  affect  their  fulfillment  of  religious  duties.  Undisturbed 
they  recite  their  prayers  with  that  healthy,  unaffected  simplicity 
and  directness  which  is  characteristic  of  French  provincial  people. 
On  other  days  than  Sunday  it  is  much  the  same.  Just  as  humble 
dwellings  cluster  against  the  walls  of  these  great  French  churches, 
so  distinctions  of  poverty  and  wealth  have  no  place  in  this 
meeting-ground  for  all  classes.  Riches  and  poverty  no  longer 
count.  When  in  these  churches  it  seems  scarcely  conceivable  that 
irreligion  is  a  mighty  power  in  France  or  that  the  Roman  Catho- 
lic Church  is  now  passing  through  dark  days.  Certainly  what- 
ever religious  devotion  the  town  possesses  still  daily  and  hourly 
centres  here,  and  certainly  the  religion  here  upheld  gets  close  to 
the  common  people.  Life  and  death,  hell  and  heaven,  the  last 
judgment,  virtue  and  vice  are  portrayed  in  the  carvings  of  the 
doorways.  Interest  in  these  themes  fills  these  great  temples  daily 
with  a  devout  population  to-day  as  they  did  when  the  cathedrals 
were  built. 

Of  all  the  features  that  mark  and  identify  the  English  church, 
its  square  eastern  ending  would  seem  to  be  the  most  universal 
and  the  most  characteristic.  In  France  the  choir  of  a  church  has  a 
circular  end,  and  the  aisle  encircles  that,  and  is  roofed  in  conse- 


French  and  English  Churches  53 

quence  with  much  involved  and  irregular  vaulting.  Beyond  the 
aisle  is  the  chevet  or  surrounding  range  of  chapels.  Throughout 
England,  however,  a  church,  whether  small  or  great,  has  a  square 
ending.  In  a  few  exceptional  instances  we  find  a  church  which 
seems  misplaced.  Westminster  Abbey,  with  its  apsidal  east  end 
and  encircling  eastern  chapels,  is  built  upon  a  French  plan.  Nor- 
wich, Peterborough,  Lichfield,  and  Canterbury  have  circular 
endings.  The  choir  of  the  latter,  built  by  a  Frenchman,  recalls 
in  its  Corinthianesque  shafts  and  capitals,  as  well  as  in  other 
details,  the  cathedral  in  the  French  town  of  Sens,  from  whence  its 
builder  came  to  Canterbury.  On  the  other  hand,  Laon  is  one  of 
the  few  French  cathedrals  that  have  that  square  eastern  termina- 
tion which  is  so  nearly  universal  in  England.  Many  may  think 
that  the  simple  quiet  English  termination  should  be  preferred  to 
the  intricate  vaulting  and  tangled  perspective  of  the  French 
chevet  with  its  flanking  chapels;  but  the  French  method  is  the 
more  ambitious,  involves  vastly  greater  constructive  skill,  and 
produces  by  far  the  more  magnificent  effects. 

Nowhere  are  the  contrasts  between  French  and  English 
churches  more  striking  than  in  their  relative  proportions,  and  in 
the  different  relations  that  height  bears  to  breadth  in  these  struc- 
tures. We  pass  beneath  a  vaulted  gatehouse  and  enter  the  pre- 
cincts of  the  cathedral  at  Wells.  Before  us,  rich  with  carving  and 
shafts  and  arcading,  and  with  those  many  statues  that  are  un- 
rivaled in  similar  English  work,  rises  the  western  front  of  the  great 
church.  Great,  do  we  say?  Well,  greatness  is  relative.  This  whole 
front  at  Wells  is  thirty-one  feet  wider  than  that  at  Amiens,  but  is 


54         An  Architect's  Sketch  Book 

only  one  half  as  high;  and  the  nave  at  Wells  is  but  twice  as  high 
as  it  is  wide,  though  that  of  Amiens  is  three  times  its  own  width. 
This  difference,  both  in  actual  height  and  in  the  relation  of  height 
to  width,  is  further  emphasized  by  the  scale  of  subordinate  details. 
At  Wells  the  church  is  entered  through  three  small  doors  that 
are  insignificant  features  in  the  rich  fagade.  A  man  can  span  those 
opposite  the  aisles,  and  they  do  not  rise  much  above  his  head.  In 
France  you  would  find,  instead  of  these  humble  entrances,  grand 
steps  of  approach  and  large  triumphal  arches  lined  with  rank 
above  rank  of  sculpture. 

In  both  countries  next  to  the  size  and  proportions  of  the  gen- 
eral mass  of  the  church  the  bell  tower  is  the  most  impressive 
exterior  feature  of  these  cathedral  churches,  and  of  the  parish 
churches  that  surround  them.  Who  shall  say  that  those  of  France 
or  England  are  the  finer !  If  you  travel  across  Normandy,  you  find 
almost  every  village  possessed  of  a  stone-spired  church  echoing 
those  of  Bayeux  and  of  Lisieux  or  of  Saint-Etienne  at  Caen.  But 
in  Northamptonshire  it  is  the  same.  Every  village  there  is  as  rich, 
and,  if  you  substitute  towers  for  spires,  it  is  the  same  in  Somer- 
setshire. In  France  they  are  stately  and  severe;  in  England  they 
charm.  The  same  characteristics  apply  to  those  cases  where  in 
both  countries  ambition  prompted  a  central  lantern  or  a  group 
of  towers  or  spires.  The  Frenchman  who  built  his  churches  to 
majestic  heights  also  laid  foundations  for  and  sometimes  built  im- 
posing towers  and  spires.  The  dignity  and  seriousness  of  the  south 
spire  at  Chartres,  or  of  those  at  Saint-Etienne  at  Caen,  or  the  spire 
at  Vendome  are  hardly  to  be  found  in  England.  At  Coutances  and 


/ 


French  and  English  Churches  55 

Bayeux  and  Caen,  and  at  the  church  of  Saint-Ouen  in  Rouen,  we 
find  a  great  central  lantern  besides  the  western  spires.  At  Rouen 
and  Bordeaux  and  Laon  and  Chartres  construction  was  well  ad- 
vanced for  towers  not  only  at  the  west  end  but  at  both  transepts. 
These  great  preparations  for  a  group  of  towers  rarely  reached 
in  France  a  final  result.  The  Englishmen,  however,  either  be- 
cause what  they  aimed  at  was  not  beyond  reach,  or  because  they 
truly  prized  a  graceful  and  beautiful  composition,  did  often  carry 
to  completion  their  clusters  of  spires  and  towers.  Some  of  the 
spires,  such  as  those  of  Lincoln,  have  now  fallen,  but  France  can 
hardly  offer  a  central  one  to  vie  with  those  of  Salisbury  or  Nor- 
wich, or  such  a  group  of  three  spires  as  those  at  Lichfield,  or  of 
spireless  towers  such  as  those  at  Lincoln  or  Canterbury  or  Wells. 

The  shafts,  the  mouldings,  the  carving,  and  the  vaulting  that 
one  finds  in  the  two  countries  present  the  same  contrasts.  At  first 
the  mediaeval  Frenchman  was  satisfied  with  simple  cylindrical 
shafts  between  aisle  and  nave;  with  square-topped  capitals  mod- 
eled on  classical  and  Corinthian  forms;  with  arches  and  vault  ribs 
adorned  only  with  a  large  roll  on  the  arrises;  and  with  carving  of 
a  Byzantine  character.  This  all  gave  a  stately  columnar  design, 
but  did  not  emphasize  the  majestic  heights  that  as  time  went  on 
were  so  much  prized.  In  visiting  French  cathedrals  one  is  to-day 
constantly  wondering  whether  the  early  Corinthianesque  work  to 
be  seen  in  Notre  Dame  at  Paris  and  at  Sens  is  more  or  less  noble 
than  later  work,  such  as  the  naves  of  Amiens  and  Bourges  and 
Tours,  where  the  column  gave  way  to  the  lofty  clustered  Gothic 
pier  and  where  carving  yielded  to  a  closer  imitation  of  natural 


56         An  Architect's  Sketch  Book 

forms.  At  the  same  time  that  you  admire  the  dignity  and  no- 
bility of  the  massive  colonnades  and  sculptured  capitals  of  Paris 
and  Sens,  you  miss  the  aspiring  vertical  lines  of  the  lofty  piers  of 
Amiens  and  Beauvais  and  Tours. 

But  that  recasting  of  classic  or  Romanesque  forms  which  pro- 
duced such  fine  results  in  France  never  prevailed  in  England. 
There  the  simple  shaft  for  the  great  piers  that  separate  nave  and 
aisle  was  discarded  when  the  round-arched  Norman  style  was 
superseded.  The  Gothic  clustered  shaft,  less  noble,  perhaps,  but 
more  intricate  and  more  aspiring,  was  the  constant  English  form. 
As  the  chisel  displaced  the  axe  in  the  shaping  of  stone,  England 
grew  incomparably  rich  in  mouldings.  They  appear  in  broad 
masses  on  arch  and  vault  rib,  on  label  and  jamb,  depending 
sometimes  on  the  light  and  shadow  in  their  carefully  arranged 
waves  and  hollows  and  fillets,  and  sometimes  on  the  foliation 
or  tooth  ornament  interspersed  among  the  mouldings.  English- 
men became  so  expert  with  mouldings  that  in  Early  English 
work  even  the  caps  and  bases  are  round  and  formed  wholly  of 
moulded  annular  work  —  a  fashion  entirely  English  and  never 
adopted  in  France.  Even  on  such  an  important  cathedral  as 
Salisbury,  sculpture  is  almost  wholly  absent  and  mouldings  on 
arch,  base,  and  capital  form  the  main  enrichment.  But  at  other 
periods  English  Gothic  carved  foliage,  without  exactly  copying 
nature,  is  full  of  its  energy,  elegance,  and  vigor,  and  in  its  grace- 
ful curves  and  masses  portrays  all  the  elements  of  plant  life.  In 
figure  sculpture  England  never  made  any  approach  to  the  almost 
classic  figures  of  Chartres  and  Amiens;  but  English  foliage  was,  if 


French  and  English  Churches  51 

not  so  noble  and  stately  in  conventional  beauty  as  the  French,  at 
least  more  free  and  tender  and  flowing. 

Finally  also,  the  building  of  vaulted  ceilings  as  practiced  by  the 
French  was,  except  where  the  exigencies  of  the  chevet  compli- 
cated it,  as  simple  as  the  mouldings  of  the  arches  that  inclosed  it. 
But  in  England  a  scheme  of  vault  ribs,  at  first  simple,  was  by 
degrees  enriched  by  subdividing  ribs.  The  intersections  of  these 
ribs  were  decorated  with  carved  bosses,  and  the  vault  surfaces 
were  covered  with  fanlike  tracery,  until  these  English  ceilings 
became  an  important  and  splendid  part  of  the  decorative  and 
constructive  scheme. 

The  close  study  of  these  Gothic  churches  in  either  country  is 
of  surprisingly  recent  date.  Not  long  since  men  thought  them 
barbarous,  uncouth,  and  not  worthy  of  serious  study.  Indeed, 
whitewash  and  lack  of  care  wrought  more  destruction  than  Puri- 
tan and  Roundhead,  or  than  Time  itself.  Sir  Walter  Scott  was 
among  the  earliest  to  praise  the  Gothic  minster.  His  idea  was  that 
the  lines  of  these  lofty  arches  were  modeled  upon  forest  forms. 

"Thou  wouldst  have  thought  some  fairy's  hand 
'Twixt  poplars  straight  the  osier  wand 
In  many  a  freakish  knot  had  twined, 
Then  framed  a  spell,  when  the  work  was  done, 
And  changed  the  willow  wreaths  to  stone." 

By  later  writers  the  origin  of  Gothic  art  is  found  by  one  in 
natural  forms;  by  another,  in  an  appreciation  for  the  aspiring 
forms  of  the  pointed  arch  introduced  by  crusaders,  who  had  be- 
come familiar  with  it  in  Sicily  and  the  East;  and  by  yet  another 


58         An  Archite&t's  Sketch  Book 

in  a  development  from  Roman  art.  Sir  Gilbert  Scott  and  M. 
Viollet-le-Duc  attributed  the  origin  and  introduction  of  Gothic 
to  structural  necessities,  to  the  difficulty  of  vaulting  irregular 
spaces,  and  to  facility  of  construction.  Recently,  Professor  Moore, 
in  his  scholarly  book,  has  thrown  new  and  clear  light  on  this  sub- 
ject. He  admits  that  all  these  influences  may  have  been  at  work 
in  the  development  of  Gothic  building.  He  agrees  with  M.  Viollet- 
le-Duc  that  its  actual  origin  was  in  France,  and  that  it  was  due  to 
constructive  needs.  He  points  out  that  in  the  English  church  the 
clerestory  windows  rarely  occupy  the  entire  space  from  pier  to 
pier;  that  the  flying  buttresses  are  there  neither  essential  nor  very 
frequent;  that  the  vaults  are  largely  supported  by  thick  walls  and 
shallow  buttresses,  and  often  spring  from  a  wall  instead  of  from 
strongly  marked  piers.  He  finds  such  a  church  merely  the  earlier 
Romanesque  structure  with  pointed  arch  details,  and  not  the 
same  complete  organism  as  the  great  French  fabric.  For  in  that 
the  slender  piers  that  carry  the  vaults  are  firmly  marked  inside 
and  outside;  also  the  entire  space  between  the  piers  is  occu- 
pied by  a  traceried  window;  and  the  thrust  of  the  vault  ribs  is 
carried  in  a  visible  manner  by  the  flying  buttress  from  the  wall 
piers  over  aisle  and  chapel  to  the  great  outer  buttress,  which 
in  turn  is  loaded  to  security  by  the  lofty  mass  of  the  pinnacle. 
He  thinks  that  this  brilliantly  conceived  framework  of  pier  and 
vault,  of  buttress  and  pinnacle,  contained  the  most  essential 
spirit  of  Gothic  art;  and  that  in  France  alone  do  we  find  the 
whole  structure  of  a  cathedral  one  fully  organized  and  visible 
framework  which  the  wealth  of  applied  ornament  only  serves  to 
emphasize. 


French  and  English  Churches  59 

In  by  far  the  larger  part  of  the  English  churches  the  detail  one 
now  sees  is  late  and  of  the  perpendicular  period.  Though  the 
Early  English  and  decorated  periods  had  national  peculiarities, 
they  were  cousins  of  similar  work  across  the  Channel.  But  Per- 
pendicular Gothic  was  a  distinctly  English  growth,  and  in  the 
hands  of  great  artists  like  William  of  Wykham  it  became  the  most 
stately  period  of  English  Gothic  architecture.  What  was  lost  by 
the  substitution  of  mechanical  and  geometric  detail  for  naturalis- 
tic carving  was  more  than  made  up  for  by  noble  proportions  and 
balanced  symmetry.  What  the  Perpendicular  style  lost  in  poetry 
and  imagination  it  gained  in  formality  and  stateliness.  There  is 
something  almost  classic  in  the  regular  repetitions  and  the  grand 
and  simple  proportions  of  Winchester's  nave  or  in  the  great 
chapels  at  Windsor  and  at  Christ  Church,  Oxford,  or  in  the  chapel 
of  Henry  the  Seventh  at  Westminster. 

On  the  other  hand,  in  the  later  work  of  France  fantasy  was 
given  free  rein  and  her  later  Gothic  buildings  were  clothed  with 
an  exuberant  abundance  of  intricate  flamboyant  detail.  This 
French  flamboyant  work  was  a  beautiful  product,  whether  it  ap- 
pears in  the  flowing  bars  of  window  tracery  and  the  flaming  rays 
of  the  great  roses,  whether  it  covers  with  its  dainty  tabernacle 
work  the  deep  recesses  of  porches,  or  whether  it  rises  in  stone 
pinnacle  or  oak  canopy  to  a  forest  network  of  buttress  and  crocket 
and  finial  that  rivals  the  intricacies  of  woodland  branches.  You 
see  that  the  work  of  the  thirteenth  century  better  satisfies  reason, 
but  still  your  eyes  delight  in  this  fairylike  construction  and  these 
fanciful  creations.  If  you  try  to  sketch  this  work,  you  respect 


60         An  Architect's  Sketch  Book 

still  more  the  poetic  genius  that  invented  it  and  the  art  that  car- 
ried it  to  perfection.  Before  the  lacelike  portals  of  Saint-Maclou 
and  the  intricate  convolutions  of  the  "crown  of  Normandy' '  or 
the  wonderful  gables  of  the  Courts  of  Justice  in  Rouen,  you  recog- 
nize that  the  farthest  bound  has  been  reached,  — that  the  end  has 
come.  But  only  a  philosopher  could  bring  himself  to  say  that 
Gothic  architecture  thus  met  its  fate  in  a  sad  decline.  The  artist 
feels  rather  that  in  its  latest  hours,  when  its  work  was  done,  it 
yielded  itself  wholly  to  romantic  fancy;  that,  with  a  fairy  touch, 
it  spent  itself  upon  flaring  crocket  and  interwoven  moulding, 
upon  tangled  snarls  of  miniature  buttress  and  complicated  pin- 
nacle, upon  a  sylvan  growth  of  window  tracery  and  panel  work; 
and  that  in  this  brilliant,  fiery  burst  of  flaming  beauty  the  end  of 
mediaeval  architecture  was  indeed  glorious. 


The  Five  Orders  of  Architecture 


THE  FIVE  ORDERS  OF  ARCHITECTURE 

1905 


LAYMAN  must  be  puzzled  when  writers  present  4 'the 


A.  X  orders  "as  the  fundamental  elements  of  good  architecture. 
He  must  wonder  by  what  accidents  or  for  what  reason  these  very 
conventional  arrangements  of  ornamental  design  are  accepted  as 
of  such  authority. 

Textbooks  rarely  give  any  answer  to  such  questions.  They  lay 
before  their  readers  little  but  the  details  and  the  appellations  of 
the  various  parts  of  the  Tuscan,  Doric,  Ionic,  Corinthian,  and 
Composite  orders.  They  scarcely  explain  that  "the  orders"  are 
but  the  orderly  arrangement  of  the  elements  of  classic  architec- 
tural design. 

Yet  the  orders  have  a  history  and  a  meaning,  and  if  these  con- 
ventional forms  are  far  less  flexible  than  the  average  American 
builder  confidently  but  ignorantly  believes,  they  are  far  more  so 
than  many  books  would  give  one  to  suppose.  The  American  peo- 
ple knew  a  good  deal  about  the  orders  a  hundred  and  fifty  years 
ago,  and  even  through  that  period  in  the  last  century  when  the 
temples  of  Athens  were  the  models  for  houses  and  public  build- 
ings throughout  America.  Thereafter  they  remained  forgotten 
until  the  Chicago  Exhibition  introduced  them  again  to  a  public 
thirsty  for  architectural  display.  Now  there  is  a  crying  need  for 


64         An  ArchiteSl's  Sketch  Book 

restraint  or  discipline  in  their  use.  What,  then,  are  these  com- 
binations of  architectural  forms  called  the  orders? 

The  most  primitive  building  involves  the  placing  of  two  posts 
in  position  and  the  spanning  of  the  intervening  space  with  a  lin- 
tel. It  is  but  a  slight  step  beyond  this  to  imagine  an  Egyptian 
easing  the  harsh  angle  of  post  and  lintel  by  binding  the  spray 
of  the  lotus  around  the  top  of  the  post,  or  the  Ionians  as  finishing 
the  same  point  of  junction  with  curled  volutes,  perhaps  to  imitate 
shavings  or  choppings  from  the  wooden  post  itself,  or  simply 
because  they  found  the  form  agreeable.  The  story  may  be  true 
that  Callimachus  observed  how  a  basket  of  toys,  left  at  the  grave 
of  a  child  and  covered  by  a  tile,  had  become  overgrown  by  the 
leaves  of  the  wild  acanthus,  and  that,  turning  this  incident  to  ar- 
tistic account,  he  carved  the  first  Corinthian  capital.  To  such 
incidents  has  the  origin  of  the  different  capitals  been  attributed, 
though  possibly  no  other  cause  need  be  sought  for  them  than  the 
innate  love  that  man  has  for  grace  and  beauty.  It  was  an  obvi- 
ous and  natural  thing  to  decorate  in  these  ways  the  simple  post 
and  beam  construction. 

But  why  do  the  6 6  orders  "  persist?  What  have  we  in  America  to 
do  with  them?  Why  is  not  some  new  and  original  decoration  more 
suited  to  us  and  our  ways?  Well,  what  new  and  original  decora- 
tion? Why  use  meter  in  poetry?  Hexameters  have  been  in  use  for 
ages.  Is  not  the  sonnet  form  too  worn  a  framework  to  support 
new  ideas?  Why  not  use  some  new  methods  of  expression?  Of 
course  no  reason  exists  why  you  may  not  do  this  if  you  can  find 
new  methods,  but  your  search  is  likely  to  be  fruitless.  In  the  same 


The  Five  Orders  of  Architecture  65 

way,  so  long  as  building  remains  fundamentally  the  placing  of  a 
lintel  on  two  supports,  all  the  old  reasons  from  which  the  orders 
sprang  remain  in  force.  The  study  that  was  given  them  by 
Greeks  and  Romans  and  by  the  great  artists  of  the  Renaissance 
has  only  added  to  their  authority  and  made  them  almost  indis- 
pensable as  a  means  of  expression.  They  pervade  modern  building 
even  when  no  colonnade  is  visible.  The  wall  of  the  room  in  which 
you  sit  has  a  base  and  a  wide  wall  space  and  a  cornice.  Columns 
and  pilasters  may  be  present  or  may  be  lacking,  but  the  wall 
represents  them.  The  base,  the  wall,  and  the  cornice  may  be 
elaborated  to  a  greater  or  less  degree,  but  the  parts  are  those  of 
an  order.  The  doorways  too  have  an  architrave  around  them 
which  represents  the  lower  part  of  a  door  cornice.  In  its  com- 
plete state  this  door  finish  would  also  have  a  frieze  and  cornice. 
The  old-fashioned,  dignified  rooms  that  we  like  owe  their  good 
qualities  to  a  study  of  proportions  that  imply  a  recognition  of 
these  facts.  To-day  our  minds  are  often  distracted  from  these 
main  essentials  by  the  thousand  petty  details  and  complications 
that  modern  life  suggest.  Still,  when  we  build  a  twenty-four  story 
office  building  the  best  arrangement  yet  discovered  is  to  divide 
its  vast  height  into  a  base  of  two  or  three  stories,  with  a  lofty 
plain  shaft  of  many  repeated  stories  over  it,  the  whole  being 
surmounted  by  a  frieze  and  cornice.  This  is  a  division  much 
like  that  of  an  order.  It  is  for  such  reasons  that  the  orders  have, 
for  good  or  bad,  come  to  form  the  basis  of  most  modern  archi- 
tectural design. 

Painters  tell  the  student  to  draw  the  human  figure,  and  it  is 


66         An  Archite&t's  Sketch  Book 

almost  an  axiom  that  if  he  can  draw  the  figure  he  can  draw 
anything  well.  It  is  on  somewhat  the  same  principle  that  the 
youthful  architect  is  set  to  master  the  orders.  The  painter 
learns  to  portray  rugged  age  and  stern  simplicity.  The  architect 
learns  the  details  of  the  Tuscan  and  Doric  orders.  Womanly 
beauty  and  the  beauties  of  the  Ionic  order  have  some  common 
attributes,  and  what  perfect  manhood  is  to  the  painter,  that 
Corinthian  and  Composite  details  represent  to  the  architect. 

It  is  true  that  in  some  very  good  architecture  it  is  hard  to  find 
the  influence  of  the  orders.  In  like  manner  it  may  be  said  that  one 
can  write  poetry  without  any  very  apparent  regard  for  the  usual 
poetical  meters.  Walt  Whitman  and  Bret  Harte  have  done  it,  and 
so  perhaps  has  Kipling.  Also,  one  can  paint  great  pictures  with- 
out being  a  perfect  delineator  of  the  human  figure.  Turner  and 
Constable  and  many  a  landscape  painter  have  done  that.  Hence 
among  architects  there  are  those  who  resent  or  decry  the  study 
of  the  orders.  Some  do  this  because  they  seek  something  new 
and  fresh  and  all  their  own.  Of  such  are  the  adherents  of  "L'Art 
Nouveau"  in  Paris  and  a  not  insignificant  class  of  skillful  men  in 
America.  But,  happily,  thus  far  our  public  ask  with  increasing 
insistence  more  for  what  is  good  than  what  is  fresh  or  original, 
especially  as  results  indicate  that  the  nearer  work  of  any  style 
comes  to  the  well-established  principles  that  govern  mass  and 
proportion  and  detail,  the  better  is  the  result.  But  besides  those 
architects  who  seek  originality  there  are  others  who  are  akin 
to  those  landscape  painters  who  can  draw  landscapes  without 
much  knowledge  of  the  figure.  As  some  painters  feel  that  painstak- 


The  Five  Orders  of  Architecture  67 

ing  academic  drawing  of  the  figure  crushes  out  life  and  interest 
and  that  academy  drawings  become  mechanical  and  pedantic,  so 
this  class  of  architects  set  most  store  by  honesty  and  naivete  and 
quaintness,  and  count  sentiment  and  poetry  higher  than  skill  and 
knowledge  and  technique.  They  urge  that  these,  the  more  roman- 
tic qualities,  give  the  same  pleasant  results  in  architecture  which 
in  painting  are  derived  from  the  color  and  joy  of  the  fields  and 
forest  and  the  sea  rather  than  from  the  study  of  a  model.  In  short, 
almost  the  same  objections  are  made  to  an  extended  study  of  the 
orders  that  are  often  urged  against  elaborate  academic  study  of 
the  nude. 

Men  of  this  way  of  thinking,  whether  painters  or  architects, 
may  produce  delightful  work.  Not  unnaturally  their  kinship  is 
with  mediaeval  artists,  for  it  is  true  that  there  was  during  the 
Middle  Ages  little  recognition  of  the  classic  orders,  however  much 
the  eternal  principles  that  underlie  them  influenced  monk  and 
artisan.  The  builders  of  the  old  stone  houses  of  Somersetshire,  of 
the  abbeys  and  cathedrals  of  England,  or  of  the  still  grander 
churches  of  France,  had  no  knowing  allegiance  to  the  artists  of 
Greece  and  Rome.  Hence,  then,  mediaeval  builders  are  perhaps 
the  natural  masters  to  a  school  that  would  drop  all  conventions 
and  be  guided  only  by  utility,  by  the  suitable  and  constructive 
use  of  materials,  and  by  ornament  evolved  from  native  natural 
forms.  At  all  events  to  such  a  school  probably  Ruskin  is  a 
prophet,  and  it  agrees  with  him  when  he  says,  "If  it  be  good 
work  it  is  not  a  copy,  nor  anything  done  by  rule,  but  a  freshly 
and  divinely  imagined  thing.  Five  orders!  There  is  not  a  side 


68         An  Architect's  Sketch  Book 

chapel  in  any  Gothic  cathedral  but  it  has  fifty  orders,  the 
worst  of  them  better  than  the  best  of  the  Greek  ones,  and  all 
new ;  and  a  single  inventive  human  soul  could  create  a  thousand 
orders  in  an  hour." 

If  there  is  weakness  in  this  position  it  lies  in  the  fact  that  the 
human  family  in  all  ages  is  more  bound  together  than  at  first 
appears,  and  that  there  is  really  no  such  absolute  and  distinct 
dividing  line  between  the  art  of  the  Middle  Ages  and  of  other  pe- 
riods. All  art  has  a  historical  sequence,  and,  though  the  mediaeval 
architect  perhaps  did  not  know  it,  the  base  and  shaft  and  capital 
of  the  French  Gothic  churches  were  evolved  in  natural  sequence 
from  the  Corinthian  orders  of  Rome.  The  introduction  of  the 
pointed  arch  and  its  logical  use  in  vault  and  opening  brought  new 
elements  to  architecture  with  new  ornaments,  but  the  art  of 
architecture  then  as  always  was  a  consecutive  growth  and  subject 
to  the  same  fundamental  elements  of  design  as  in  classical  periods. 
Still,  it  must  be  conceded  that  there  was  little  to  remind  one  of 
the  classic  orders  in  buildings  at  the  close  of  the  Middle  Ages. 
In  the  lofty  moulded  pillars  of  the  perpendicular  period  in  Eng- 
land or  in  the  exuberant  traceries  of  French  flamboyant  work 
it  is  difficult  to  trace  close  relationship  with  the  colonnades  of 
Rome.  There  will  always  be  men  that  find  the  highest  beauty  in 
this  period ;  to  whom  the  picturesque  and  the  poetical  will  make 
strong  appeal ;  and  who  feel  most  sympathy  with  building  design 
in  which  the  influence  of  classic  art  is  the  least  apparent.  To 
them  the  orders  are  not  as  indispensable  objects  of  study  as  to 
others. 


The  Five  Orders  of  Architecture  69 

The  same  revival  of  learning  that  brought  to  the  modern  world 
the  Greek  and  Roman  classic  authors  brought  also  the  study  of 
classic  art.  Vitruvius,  a  Roman  architect  of  about  the  time  of 
Augustus,  was  the  author  of  a  treatise  on  architecture  as  prac- 
ticed in  his  day.  Interpretations  of  his  instructions  and  restora- 
tions of  the  buildings  he  described  were  favorite  labors  and  pas- 
times for  the  architects  of  the  Renaissance.  Brunelleschi  and 
Bramante  were  early  students  of  the  ancient  work  that  they  found 
in  Rome.  Alberti,  Scamozzi,  Serlio,  and  Vignola  and  many 
others  reduced  to  proportional  parts  such  a  scheme  for  each  order 
as  they  had  individually  composed  from  a  study  of  the  then  ex- 
isting antique  models  and  of  such  classical  authors  as  wrote 
about  architecture.  That  of  Vignola  is  the  most  complete  and 
the  most  studied ;  but  the  orders  as  approved  by  each  of  these 
different  artists  and  by  many  later  ones,  such  as  Sir  William 
Chambers  at  the  end  of  the  last  century,  are  within  the  reach  of 
every  architect. 

Mr.  Ruskin  says  that  one  can  "have  no  conception  of  the  inani- 
ties and  puerilities  of  the  writers  who  with  the  help  of  Vitruvius 
reestablished  its  five  orders,  determined  the  proportions  of  each, 
and  gave  the  various  recipes  for  sublimity  and  beauty  which  have 
been  thenceforward  followed  to  this  day."  From  the  dogmatic 
way  in  which  the  authorities  of  the  Renaissance  period  each 
stated  the  exact  proportions  that  every  member  of  every  order 
should  hold  to  every  other  it  is  not  surprising  that  the  orders  are 
generally  thought  to  be  inflexible  and  to  offer  no  opportunity  for 
invention  or  variety.  This  is  surely  far  from  being  the  case.  The 


70         An  Architect's  Sketch  Book 

order  of  Serlio  differed  from  that  of  Alberti,  and  Palladio's  pro- 
portions were  not  those  of  Scamozzi.  If  we  turn  to  the  ancients, 
a  glance  at  the  orders  used  in  the  Doric  temples  shows  how  very 
varied  was  that  order  as  used  by  the  Greeks,  and  how  sure  was  its 
progression  from  the  stumpy  columns  with  wide  spreading  caps 
of  the  temple  at  Corinth  to  the  perfect  order  of  the  Parthenon. 
That  consummate  product  of  Greek  art  had  a  constructive  scheme 
of  the  utmost  simplicity.  The  Athenians  applied  to  it  a  prod- 
igality of  study  and  refinement  that  brought  every  line  and 
contour  and  ornament  to  a  perfection  of  Doric  beauty.  The  same 
gradual  progression  is  true  of  the  Ionic  order  as  in  the  hands  of 
Greeks  it  was  evolved  from  the  rough  forms  of  Asia  Minor  to  the 
riper  beauty  of  the  Erechtheum.  Then  when  Rome  inherited  the 
orders  and  carried  the  Corinthian  order  to  that  fulfillment  of 
which  the  Greeks  had  seen  but  the  early  promise,  there  is  all  the 
difference  in  the  world  between  its  calm  dignity  at  the  Pan- 
theon, its  richness  at  the  temples  of  Vespasian  and  Concord  and 
Jupiter,  and  its  glorious  opulence  at  the  Temple  of  the  Sun.  No 
invention  and  no  variety !  Even  precise  and  elegant  Athens  tol- 
erated two  different  Doric  orders  and  an  Ionic  order  in  the 
Propylsea,  and  few  buildings  are  more  picturesque  or  irregular  in 
arrangement  than  the  Erechtheum.  Who  supposes  that  there  was 
any  lack  of  variety  or  invention  in  Imperial  Rome?  Truly  one 
can  but  faintly  conceive  of  the  variety  and  splendor  of  the  cities  of 
Augustus  or  of  Constantine,  filled  as  they  were  with  colonnades 
and  porticos,  with  vaulted  halls  and  temples  and  forums  of  which 
the  varied  and  marvelous  remains  left  to  us  are  but  indications. 


The  Five  Orders  of  Architecture  71 

We  are  told  that  the  Greek  was  the  great  artist  and  the  Roman 
the  great  constructor.  Roman  carving  was  from  the  hands  of 
Greeks,  and  Vitruvius  in  his  treatise  on  architecture  says  he  de- 
rived the  greatest  assistance  from  the  writings  of  Grecian  archi- 
tects upon  architecture.  Still  the  Corinthian  order  was  never  de- 
veloped until  it  came  under  Roman  influence,  and  then  Roman 
conquest  spread  it  throughout  Greece  itself.  It  does  not  greatly 
matter  whether  this  was  done  by  true  Romans  or  by  Greeks  under 
Roman  influence.  These  great  artists  may  have  lacked  the  pure 
Athenian  refinement,  yet,  in  the  presence  of  the  mighty  remains 
of  their  work  which  we  even  now  find  in  Rome,  one  cannot 
but  recognize  that  they  were  supreme  in  their  use  of  the  orders. 
By  means  of  them  they  obtained  perhaps  the  most  majestic  and 
overpowering  architectural  effects  that  the  world  has  ever  seen. 

If  in  the  works  of  antiquity  the  proportions  of  the  orders  varied 
greatly,  even  greater  variety  was  prevalent  during  the  whole 
Renaissance  period.  The  orders  then  were  adorned  with  ara- 
besques and  carving.  Besides  being  applied  to  buildings  they 
entered  into  the  design  of  altars,  wainscots,  and  furniture  of  every 
kind.  Passed  on  from  age  to  age  and  through  various  countries 
these  conventional  forms  have  come  by  devious  paths  to  modern 
days.  The  artists  of  the  time  of  Francis  I,  finding  them  habitually 
used  in  the  Italy  they  invaded,  grafted  them  in  a  playful  manner 
on  the  mediaeval  stock  of  France.  Later  in  England  Elizabethan 
and  Jacobean  work  showed  a  similar  combination  of  classic  de- 
tail on  a  picturesque  body.  Then  in  the  more  formal  periods 
between  the  reigns  of  Louis  XIII  and  Louis  XVI  in  France  and 


72         An  Architect's  Sketch  Book 

under  the  guidance  of  Sir  Christopher  Wren  and  Sir  William 
Chambers  in  England,  the  purer  use  of  the  orders  obtained.  Thus 
by  degrees  they  reached  us  and  appeared  in  the  White  House  at 
Washington,  in  the  New  York  City  Hall,  and  in  King's  Chapel 
and  the  State  House  in  Boston,  as  charming  echoes  from  the 
courts  of  Louis  XVI  and  of  Queen  Anne  and  the  Georges. 

In  the  modern  world  the  Ecole  des  Beaux  Arts  has  been  the 
nursery  where  the  study  of  the  orders  has  been  most  fostered. 
Nothing  can  exceed  the  grace  and  dignity  with  which  they  were 
used  by  the  French  masters  of  that  school  in  the  first  half  of  the 
last  century.  It  is  sometimes  questioned  whether  Parisian  "  taste  " 
holds  now  to  the  standards  of  the  past,  but  the  principles  that 
govern  the  use  of  the  orders  and  the  making  of  a  plan  still  are 
taught  better  in  France  than  elsewhere. 

When  the  American  student  returns  from  his  studies  in  a  Pa- 
risian atelier  and  uses  the  orders  in  his  monumental  work,  he 
finds  almost  as  many  questions  confronting  him  as  if  he  were  using 
something  fresh  instead  of  a  convention  two  thousand  years  old. 
Shall  his  order  be  light  or  heavy?  Shall  he  make  his  pilasters 
without  entasis  and  flute  them  as  at  the  Pantheon,  or  make  them 
plain  and  with  an  entasis  as  at  the  Temple  of  Mars ;  or  shall  he  dis- 
regard the  advice  of  the  wise  and  give  them  both  flutings  and  an 
entasis?  Then,  how  can  he  correct  the  bow-legged  look  on  the 
face,  and  how  adjust  the  flutings  on  the  return?  If  the  pilaster  has 
no  entasis,  where  shall  the  entasis  that  the  column  does  have  be 
taken  up  in  the  pilaster?  What  proportions  of  the  many  that  are 
possible  shall  be  given  to  the  modillions?  Shall  the  capital  be 


The  Five  Orders  of  Architecture  73 

modeled  on  the  bell  prescribed  by  Vitruvius,  or  will  the  horns 
then  be  too  protruding,  and  shall  he  study  it  after  some  other 
Classical  or  Renaissance  type?  Shall  he  place  in  the  corner  of  a 
room  a  little  fraction  of  a  pilaster  as  a  respond,  or  shall  he  adjust 
the  whole  scheme  to  give  large  pilasters  in  the  corners?  Perhaps, 
in  protest  against  the  malformed  orders  he  sees  all  around  him, 
he  may  vow  to  follow  closely  Vignola,  and  then,  in  attempting  to 
give  a  colonial  air  to  some  design  in  wood,  he  may  find,  perhaps 
too  late,  that  the  essence  of  such  work  lies  in  attenuated  orders 
and  slender  details.  Surely  the  use  of  the  orders  offers  questions 
enough  to  puzzle  over,  questions  that  involve  the  nicest  taste  and 
clearest  judgment  and  widest  experience.  They  are  questions  that 
are  perhaps  best  likened  to  those  that  must  trouble  the  writer  of  a 
sonnet  as  he  brings  his  lines  into  the  accepted  form. 

Perhaps  the  chief  objection  to  be  found  with  such  a  general  use 
of  the  orders  as  is  now  prevalent  in  monumental  work  is  a  certain 
uniformity  in  the  design  of  clever  people.  Depending  as  the 
orders  do  on  very  delicate  distinctions  and  selections,  the  per- 
sonal and  individual  touch  is  not  apparent  to  most  eyes.  At 
present,  for  instance,  in  a  competition  for  a  great  government 
building  it  is  almost  impossible  to  attribute  any  special  design  to 
its  author.  All  the  designs  have  one  pervading  spirit.  Thirty 
years  ago  the  work  of  the  designer  was  more  interesting  and 
picturesque  in  intention  than  it  is  to-day,  but  it  lacked  in  skill 
and  knowledge.  To-day  it  often  lacks  in  interest,  though  carried 
out  with  consummate  technique. 

We  are  not  going  to  lose  the  orders.  They  are  with  us  to  stay, 


74         An  Architect's  Sketch  Book 

just  as  much  as  the  poetical  framework  of  the  sonnet,  which  they 
so  much  resemble.  They  will  not  be  used  everywhere.  We  must 
remember  that  there  are  ballads  and  lyrics  to  be  written  as  well  as 
sonnets  and  epics.  Burns  was  a  poet  as  well  as  Keats,  and  Millet 
a  painter  as  well  as  Ingres.  Charming  and  poetical  designs  are 
possible  which  show  little  affiliation  with  classical  traditions, 
though  we  may  believe  that  in  some  degree  such  beauty  as 
these  have  rests  on  the  same  fundamental  principles  from  which 
the  orders  have  been  evolved  as  convenient  and  long-accepted 
epitomes.  But  in  modern  monumental  work  majestic  colonnades 
and  porticoes  will  probably  be  the  most  usual  means  of  express- 
ing these  fundamental  principles.  It  will  be  long  before  a  better 
means  of  giving  grandeur  and  stateliness  to  a  building  will  be 
found  than  can  be  obtained  by  the  skillful  and  intelligent  use  of 
a  noble  order. 


On  the  Design  of  Houses 


VI 

ON  THE  DESIGN  OF  HOUSES 
1905 

WHEN  a  rich  American  who  has  no  traditional  ties  wishes 
to  build  a  mansion,  there  at  once  arises  the  question, 
what  character  or  style  of  historical  detail  shall  be  used  in  its 
design,  or  whether  as  far  as  possible  all  such  relations  with  the 
past  shall  be  ignored.  In  these  days  of  photography  and  easy 
travel  the  history  of  art  forces  its  treasures  before  him  in  blinding 
profusion.  The  last  century  moreover  multiplied  to  countless 
numbers  the  books  which  show  in  attractive  guise  what  architec- 
ture has  meant  in  other  times  and  to  other  people.  These  bless- 
ings have  wrought  a  swifter  revolution  than  any  that  has  previ- 
ously affected  the  arts  of  design.  They  have  also  brought  with 
them  troubles  that  are  quite  new  and  very  puzzling.  Even  our 
great-grandfathers  were  little  concerned  about  the  style  in  which 
their  buildings  should  be  designed.  Up  to  their  day  architecture 
had  shown  a  systematic  and  continuous  growth.  Throughout  our 
country  the  designs  of  Gibbs  and  Wren  and  Inigo  Jones  were 
reproduced  in  many  forms,  and  every  village  builder,  without 
discussion  or  question,  accepted  such  details  as  the  only  method 
of  expressing  himself  in  porch  and  cornice,  in  mantel  and  cup- 
board. The  man  of  to-day  can  continue  in  their  steps,  but  his 
position  differs  from  that  of  his  ancestor  in  that  this  is  but 
one  of  various  courses  open  to  him. 


78         An  Architect's  Sketch  Book 

Many  will  certainly  be  found  who  object  to  the  use  of  detail, 
ornament,  or  forms  that  have  served  other  people  and  other 
ages.  The  44 laudator  temporis  acti"  passes  with  many  for  an 
old  fogy,  and  the  " practical  man"  cannot  see  why  we  moderns 
are  not  sufficient  unto  ourselves,  or  why  we  have  to  depend  in  any 
manner  on  the  styles  of  buildings  in  vogue  in  the  past.  Let  such 
an  objector,  however,  try  to  design  even  so  familiar  a  building  as 
a  country  house,  and  he  will  soon  agree  that  the  world  must 
needs  be  more  artless  and  less  sophisticated  than  we  find  it  to- 
day to  permit  him  to  ignore  the  work  of  the  past.  A  trifling  bit 
of  detail  gives  a  long  historical  ancestry  even  to  an  unimportant 
design.  To  the  informed  mind  the  pitch  of  the  roof,  the  shape 
of  the  eaves  or  of  the  wall  openings,  the  preponderance  of  hori- 
zontal or  vertical  lines  or  shadows,  still  more,  the  profiles  of 
mouldings  and  the  spirit  of  the  ornamental  detail,  all  promptly 
proclaim  their  origin. 

Obviously,  the  question  may  be  dodged  to  a  great  degree  in 
many  simple  houses.  Many  buildings  may  have  that  "style" 
which  means  only  grace  and  beauty  of  mass  or  of  outline  or  color, 
and  possibly  those  designers  who  can  stop  with  this  are  the  more 
fortunate.  But,  even  in  a  little  house,  what  shall  be  done  with  the 
inevitable  detail  of  the  stairs,  the  mantels,  the  porches,  and  the 
furniture?  The  traces  of  past  human  life  and  art  cannot  be  so 
eradicated  that  all  this  detail  shall  be  colorless,  for  it  is  out  of 
the  power  of  man  to  prevent  its  having  some  degree  of  affili- 
ation with  some  bygone  art.  If  such  questions  arise  with  the 
small  details  of  a  small  house,  how  much  more  pressing  are  they 
in  work  of  magnitude. 


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On  the  Design  of  Houses  79 

Why  should  not  the  rich  American  find  safe  models  in  the  build- 
ings of  ancient  Rome?  Indeed,  he  might  do  worse,  for  there  is 
much  in  common  between  our  life  and  that  of  those  distant 
days.  We  read  classic  authors  and  we  feel  familiar  with  their 
ways  and  methods.  Cicero  argues  his  cases  as  if  in  one  of  our 
courts.  Csesar  tells  the  story  of  his  campaigns  as  Grant  or  Sher- 
man have  told  of  theirs.  Horace  describes  his  Sabine  farm  or 
Pliny  writes  of  his  Tuscan  villa,  and  we  are  in  the  company  of 
country  gentlemen  who  find  a  truly  modern  enjoyment  in  house, 
farm,  and  cattle,  in  trees  and  gardens,  in  running  streams  and 
shady  coppices.  So,  although  the  mediaeval  castle  or  cloister, 
notwithstanding  its  charm,  has  little  in  common  with  our  life, 
we  find  that  the  villa  of  the  ancient  Romans  would  almost  meet 
present  needs  at  Lenox  or  Newport.  Colonnades,  courts  and 
cloisters,  great  sunny  baths  from  which  the  bathers  have  a  view 
of  the  sea,  tennis  courts,  riding-grounds  and  amphitheatres, 
marble  seats  and  basins,  flat  lawns  surrounded  by  plane  trees 
that  are  linked  by  festoons  of  ivy  and  banked  by  masses  of  box 
and  laurel,  —  all  these  met  the  tired  Roman  when  he  drove, 
on  an  afternoon,  to  the  seaside  or  the  mountain.  They  would 
accord  well  with  the  luxurious  manners  of  modern  watering- 
places,  and  their  richly  decorated  interiors,  doubtless  something 
like  those  we  see  at  Pompeii,  would  make  no  unfitting  back- 
ground for  fashionable  life  to-day. 

Yet,  as  we  say  this,  we  know  that,  though  the  general  spirit 
of  such  a  building  might  be  retained,  it  would  be  scarcely  pos- 
sible for  a  modern  family  to  abide  comfortably  even  in  a  luxu- 


so         An  ArchitedVs  Sketch  Book 

rious  villa  such  as  the  Romans  built.  In  the  fifteenth  century 
men  were  still  living  ruder  lives  than  we  do  now,  and  yet,  anxious 
as  the  humanists  of  the  Italian  Renaissance  were  to  restore 
classic  ways,  they  did  not  copy  the  old  Roman  villa,  but,  with 
good  common  sense,  adapted  it  to  their  own  customs.  The  car- 
dinals and  princes  who  built  the  villas  of  Italy  succeeded  natu- 
rally to  the  luxurious  tastes  and  ample  expenditure  of  the  ancient 
Romans.  The  love  of  gardens,  shaded  walks,  terraced  lawns, 
and  sloping  steps,  of  fountains,  statues,  and  porticoes,  was  as 
great  with  a  Prince  of  the  Church  as  with  a  Senator  of  ancient 
Rome.  The  villas  on  the  hills  around  Florence  and  Siena  and 
those  that  are  fast  vanishing  from  the  neighborhood  of  Genoa; 
the  precipitous  terraces  and  gushing  fountains  of  the  Villa 
d'Este;  the  ports  and  casinos  that  stud  the  steep  shores  of  Lake 
Como;  and  the  lovely  vaulted  porches  which  Julio  Romano  and 
his  pupils  built  and  made  to  glow  with  dainty  arabesque  and 
delicate  color  on  the  rugged  sides  of  Monte  Mario;  all  these 
must  have  resembled  to  a  great  degree  the  structures  that  covered 
the  hillsides  around  imperial  Rome.  These  Italian  villas  are  in- 
deed the  classic  structures  adapted  to  modern  uses.  Thus  it 
happens  that  in  them  the  history  of  art  opens  before  us  another 
line  of  wonderful  examples. 

But  if,  instead  of  studying  the  ancient  palaces  of  Rome  or 
those  of  Italy  during  the  fifteenth  century,  we  turn  towards 
France,  we  are  soon  in  imagination  leading  our  rich  client  along 
a  very  different  road  in  search  of  a  style.  We  find  the  Valois 
kings  returning  one  after  another  from  Italy  with  imaginations 


1 

V 


On  the  Design  of  Houses  si 

fired  by  what  they  had  seen  there  of  an  advanced  civilization, 
and  bringing  in  their  train  a  host  of  Italian  artists  to  render 
service  in  modernizing  the  arts  of  France.  Whatever  their  faults, 
the  Valois  were  great  builders.  Under  their  influence,  little  by 
little,  that  domestic  comfort  and  luxury  suggested  by  recent  con- 
tact with  the  higher  civilization  of  Italy  was  introduced  into  the 
ancient  fortresses  of  France.  The  ancient  structure  remained 
fundamentally  unchanged.  The  high  roofs,  the  conical  turrets, 
the  machicolated  cornices,  and  the  vigorous  picturesque  outlines 
of  the  mediaeval  castle,  all  gave  an  indigenous  shape  to  the 
buildings.  Rude  walls  were  however  pierced  with  mullioned 
windows,  and  decorated  with  paneled  pilasters  tier  on  tier;  a 
forest  of  chimneys  and  dormers  grew  on  the  roof,  and  the  car- 
vers, abandoning  the  rugged  mediaeval  forms,  enriched  window 
and  doorway,  chimney  and  arcade,  with  arabesques  and  refined 
mouldings  adapted  from  Italian  models.  The  Renaissance  be- 
came master  in  the  old  feudal  dwellings. 

In  spite  of  the  admiration  of  the  Frenchman  for  the  work  of 
foreign  artists,  the  latter  were  not  strong  enough  to  crush  out 
native  talent.  As  the  French  had  shown  themselves  great  art- 
ists during  the  mediaeval  periods,  so  they  asserted  their  strength 
during  the  Renaissance  of  classic  art.  What  had  the  general  mass 
of  Chambord  or  Fontainebleau  or  Chenonceaux,  with  their  high 
roofs  and  multitudinous  chimneys,  in  common  with  the  Villa 
Madama  that  Julio  Romano  was  building  in  Rome,  or  with  the 
Farnesina  that  was  growing  under  Raphael's  guidance?  Hardly 
anything,  except  a  general  resemblance  in  detail,  and  even  to  that 


82         An  Archite&t's  Sketch  Book 

the  Frenchmen  gave  a  new  touch  in  arabesque  and  capital  and 
cornice.  The  work  of  Philibert  Delorme  and  Pierre  Lescott, 
of  Germain  Pilon  and  Jean  Goujon,  although  influenced  by  Ital- 
ians and  inspired  by  the  antique,  was  thoroughly  French.  The 
Italians  had  applied  the  art  of  ancient  Rome  to  their  own  needs 
and  customs.  The  French  adapted  to  their  own  uses  the  work  of 
Italy.  Hence  there  are  no  better  examples  of  the  proper  method 
of  assimilating  the  art  of  other  days  and  other  countries  than 
these  French  chateaux.  For  such  reasons  they  are  full  of  sugges- 
tions for  a  people  to  whom  the  world  of  art  is  presented,  much  as 
it  was  to  the  subjects  of  Frangois  Premier. 

When  we  turn  to  England  we  find  repeated  there  all  the  various 
phases  that  occurred  in  the  history  of  French  architecture.  Dur- 
ing the  Middle  Ages  the  efforts  of  English  builders  had  been 
spent  on  churches  and  monastery  buildings,  or  on  castles  that 
were  places  of  safety  quite  as  much  as  dwellings.  With  the  Re- 
formation, church  building  practically  ceased,  but  the  increased 
luxury  of  the  time  produced  the  change  of  the  defensible  fortress 
into  the  comfortable  dwelling-house.  The  castle  of  Elizabeth's 
favorite  Leicester,  which  is  familiar  to  us  in  Scott's  novel  "Kenil- 
worth,"  though  not  of  the  purer  Gothic  type,  showed  nothing  to 
indicate  the  coming  change  in  art;  and  yet  Elizabeth  came  to  the 
throne  in  1558,  only  six  years  before  Michael  Angelo  died. 

But  during  the  reigns  of  Elizabeth  and  James,  means  of  de- 
fense gave  way  to  the  desire  for  comfort  and  luxury  and  light  and 
air.  Courtyards  were  opened  up.  Long  ranges  of  windows  ap- 
peared where  before  would  have  been  blank  walls.   The  English 


■  r. 


i  i 


i 


1 


I 

>— : — 


4  5r,">vJ 


On  the  Design  of  Houses  83 

buildings  resulting  from  this  movement,  where  free  from  orna- 
ment and  where  builders  adhered  to  the  local  traditions  as 
handed  down  from  father  to  son,  were  full  of  a  quiet  reason- 
able beauty  due  to  the  well-considered  use  of  materials  and  the 
absence  of  desire  to  surprise  by  learning  or  technical  dexterity. 
Such  delightful  work  is  to  be  found  all  over  England.  We  see 
it  in  stone  cottages  and  manor  houses,  in  the  plainer  portions  of 
great  mansions;  in  the  colleges  at  Oxford  and  Cambridge  and  in 
the  brick  houses  of  Kent.  It  is  difficult  to  name  the  age  of 
such  buildings.  They  have  but  little  detail  that  ties  them  to  any 
given  period.  They  are  simple,  wholesome,  and  direct  architec- 
ture. In  these  honest  plain  buildings  the  unbroken  traditions 
of  English  building  were  continued  throughout  the  Elizabethan 
and  Jacobean  periods,  and  formed  a  charming  English  style 
unlike  anything  in  France  or  Germany  or  Italy. 

But  more  important  building  could  not  remain  thus  without 
the  ornament  that  betrays  the  thought  and  learning  of  its  de- 
signers. The  larger  houses  and  mansions  demanded  enrichment. 
They  retained  the  picturesque  group  and  outline  that  was  a 
legacy  of  the  Gothic  tradition,  but  they  soon  were  crowded  with 
detail  that  is  ill  understood  and  with  ornament  that  is  poor. 
Though  this  ornament  adds  greatly  to  the  picturesque  effect  of 
the  structures,  it  is  almost  universally  marked  by  extreme  ignor- 
ance of  the  scholarship  of  architecture.  Ill-proportioned  orders, 
odd  intermixtures  of  Gothic  and  Italian  ornament,  rude  versions 
of  familiar  classical  designs,  all  show  a  desire  to  appear  familiar 
with  the  modes  which  were  then  prevalent  in  Europe,  but  which 


84         An  Architect's  Sketch  Book 

were  not  fully  understood  in  England.  France  under  Francis  I, 
subjected  to  the  same  influences,  made  the  Italian  "  motifs  "  her 
own  and  gave  them  a  new  and  peculiar  beauty.  England  was 
satisfied  to  adopt  the  66  motifs"  and  be  content  with  the  richness 
they  added  to  building.  She  accepted  them  as  seen  through  the 
eyes  of  Dutchmen  or  other  foreigners,  and,  caring  for  no  refine- 
ments, was  satisfied  with  rude  suggestions  of  the  original  work. 
As  a  result  Elizabethan  and  Jacobean  building  charms  by  its  pic- 
turesque grouping,  and  is  attractive  in  texture  because  of  lavish 
and  well-placed  enrichment.  The  enrichment  is  not  such  as 
bears  the  scrutiny  of  a  purist,  although  it  must  be  said  that  its 
very  naivete  and  picturesque  crudeness,  joined  to  an  abundant 
exuberance,  gives  it  a  certain  interest  of  its  own. 

All  this  change  was  the  same  as  that  which,  caused  by  the 
same  influences,  was  going  on  in  literature  at  this  same  mo- 
ment. Perhaps  the  most  fashionable  book  of  Spenser's  day  was 
Lilly's  "Euphues."  It  was  considered  by  the  Court  a  proof  of 
refined  manners  to  adopt  its  phraseology.  "That  beautie  in 
court  who  could  not  parley  Euphuisme "  was  as  little  regarded 
as  she  who  now  cannot  speak  French.  This  foppery  is  described 
in  Sir  Walter  Scott's  novel  of  "The  Monastery,"  where  a  court 
gallant  calls  the  cows  "the  milky  mothers  of  the  herd"  and  the 
youth  who  tends  them  "most  bucolical  juvenal."  Indeed,  the 
ardor  for  classical  erudition  was  so  prevalent  among  the  learned 
and  great,  in  England  as  elsewhere  in  Europe,  that  the  mytho- 
logy as  well  as  the  diction  of  the  ancients  became  fashion- 
able.  It  is  impossible  to  read  such  a  poem  as  Spenser's  "Faerie 


On  the  Design  of  Houses  85 

Queene"  and  not  see  that  it  is  the  expression  of  exactly  the 
same  feelings  as  those  which  dictated  the  design  of  such  great 
mansions  as  Audley  End  or  Wollaton.  One  is  a  Christian  ro- 
mance of  the  Middle  Ages  embroidered  with  classical  names 
and  ill-understood  allusions  to  heathen  gods  and  goddesses;  the 
others  are  Gothic  palaces  plastered  over  with  such  Corinthian 
pilasters  and  details  as  indicate  the  point  which  men  of  taste 
had  then  reached  in  realizing  the  charms  of  Roman  art.  The 
classical  allusions,  applied  to  a  truly  English  allegory,  are  but 
the  counterparts  of  the  Italian  mouldings  and  ornaments,  the 
cherubs  and  wreaths  and  shells  that  are  applied  to  the  truly 
English  buildings  of  the  Elizabethan  age. 

The  numerous  foreign  artists  who  came  to  England  during 
Elizabeth's  reign  were  nearly  all  natives  of  Germany  and  the 
Low  Countries.  Their  influence  was  prominent  in  all  ornamental 
detail,  such  as  on  the  staircases,  or  in  the  carving  of  screens  and 
mantels,  in  strapwork  gables,  in  male  and  female  figures  ending 
in  balusters.  These  all  show  Dutch  influence  on  Englishmen. 
The  workmanship  was  full  of  dexterity,  but  lacked  the  grace  and 
elegance  of  the  Italian,  and  the  crudeness  of  the  Dutchman's 
version  of  Italian  detail  made  it  far  more  easy  for  the  ruder 
workmen  of  England  to  reproduce  than  the  real  Italian  work. 
The  Englishmen  with  these  surroundings  made  very  free  with 
the  five  orders,  and  depended  for  guidance  and  help  mainly  on 
pattern  books  like  that  of  Vriedman  de  Vries,  which  was  pub- 
lished in  Antwerp  in  1563.  It  was  largely  by  means  of  these 
pattern  books  that  this  taste  was  so  quickly  disseminated.  They 


86         An  Archite&t's  Sketch  Book 

were  used  instead  of  the  Italian  treatises  of  Alberti  and  Palladio 
and  the  other  interpreters  of  Vitruvius,  with  which  in  fact  Eng- 
lish builders  at  that  time  were  not  familiar.  Towards  the  end  of 
the  reign  of  Elizabeth  the  workmen  from  the  Low  Countries 
found  their  principal  employment  in  the  making  of  monuments 
and  chimney-pieces,  and  perhaps  more  design  was  lavished  by 
them  on  interior  wooden  fittings  than  on  the  masonry  itself. 
Staircases,  which  before  this  time  had  been  of  stone  and  which  had 
been  valued  solely  as  means  of  communication,  now  became  or- 
namental and  stately.  They  were  generally  of  oak  and  very  often 
with  interlacing  strapwork  on  the  balustrades  or  rude  figurework 
on  the  posts.  The  designer's  skill  was  also  freely  spent  on  man- 
tels of  oak  or  of  colored  marbles  in  houses,  and  on  wooden  screens 
or  pulpits  in  the  churches.  But  everywhere  in  all  this  detail 
Dutch  taste  made  itself  felt. 

In  England,  then,  we  see  that  the  work  of  a  hundred  years  had 
produced  from  the  mediaeval  castle  a  modern  mansion,  in  all  re- 
spects admirable  in  an  artistic  sense  as  long  as  plain  building  was 
adhered  to,  but  adorned,  enriched,  and  beautified  by  ornament 
that  does  not  bear  close  analysis.  In  spirit  and  in  shape  these 
houses  form  a  type  that  is  distinct  and  national,  and  as  they  were 
built  by  the  common  ancestors  of  Englishmen  and  ourselves, 
every  Anglo-Saxon  may  legitimately  delight  in  their  beauties. 
There  is  also  one  more  reason  why  we  should  like  them.  In 
France  the  art  of  the  aristocracy  was  imitated  by  humbler  classes 
and  the  manor  and  farm  dimly  recalled  the  round  towers  and 
lofty  roofs  of  the  chateau.   But  all  English  architecture  starts 


On  the  Design  of  Houses  87 

with  the  home  as  the  unit,  and  as  the  grandeur  of  the  house  in- 
creases, it  is  still  an  enlarged  home.  So  we  find  scarcely  a  palace 
in  England.  Saint  James's  Palace  is  as  nothing  by  the  side  of 
the  Louvre;  Blenheim  is  inconsiderable  compared  with  Versailles. 
The  truly  interesting  grand  houses  of  England  are  such  as  Knole 
and  Penshurst  and  Compton  Wyngates,  where  features  common 
to  humble  dwellings  throughout  England  are  found  in  the  greatest 
perfection.  The  world  has  never  known  houses  more  homelike 
than  these,  for  in  them  domestic  charms  take  the  place  of  splen- 
dor, and  that  homely  aspect  is  retained  which  characterizes  cot- 
tage, manor  house,  mansion,  church  and  cathedral  throughout 
the  length  and  breadth  of  England. 

Our  wealthy  client  by  this  time  will  probably  find  this  dis- 
cussion confusing.  Here  already  are  several  very  distinct  styles 
with  which  he  may  affiliate  his  design,  and  we  are  far  from  the 
end.  That  we  have  this  wealth  of  authority  prodigally  placed 
before  us  is  perhaps  a  misfortune,  but  it  results  from  our  being 
born  in  this  century.  It  is  the  blessing  and  the  burden  of  to-day. 
We  can  despise  it  and  try  vainly  to  be  original;  we  can  copy  it 
exactly  as  many  fashionable  decorators  advise;  or  we  can,  like 
the  artists  of  the  Renaissance  in  Italy,  France,  and  England,  or 
indeed  like  the  real  artist  of  all  time,  try  to  adapt  the  art  of  past 
ages  to  immediate  needs.  If  we  despise  it,  we  may  create  novel- 
ties, but  we  have  no  guarantee  that  novelty  is  improvement. 
The  slang  of  the  cowboy  is  not  likely  to  supplant  permanently 
our  mother  tongue,  and  startling  novelties  in  architecture  will 
only  please  for  a  time.  In  fact,  only  ignorance  is  blind  to  the  past. 


88         An  Architect's  Sketch  Book 

On  the  other  hand,  slavish  copying  is  unmeaning,  pedantic,  and 
stupid.  Shall  we  go  without  bathrooms  because  an  English- 
man ' Hubs"  it?  Shall  we  forego  piazzas  because  they  are  not 
needed  under  the  foggy  skies  of  England?  At  this  moment, 
American  fashion,  ignorantly  groping  for  a  sure  guide,  sometimes 
blindly  accepts  almost  any  room  if  only  it  be  of  a  "period," 
and  especially  a  French  period.  It  goes  farther  and  makes  each 
room  of  a  different  period.  When  the  result  is  beautiful  and  ap- 
propriate, all  is  well,  but  to  many  the  name  gives  undue  confid- 
ence. In  many  cases  it  seems  affected,  and  inappropriate,  and 
consequently  vulgar.  For  such  reasons  we  may  be  sure  that  strict 
archaeology  is  as  much  out  of  place  in  American  house  design  as 
is  the  demand  for  a  new  and  wholly  American  style. 

There  still  remains  the  possibility  of  adapting  the  art  of  past 
ages  to  our  own  uses.  This  is  the  only  work  worthy  of  an  artist, 
and  whether  the  house  be  modeled  upon  the  Petit  Trianon  or 
Haddon  Hall,  whether  it  resemble  a  chateau  in  Touraine  or  a 
Tuscan  villa,  it  is  of  course  lifeless  and  inappropriate  unless 
adapted  to  our  customs,  life,  and  habits.  He  is  the  true  artist 
who  can  thus  adjust  in  a  natural  and  straightforward  way,  with- 
out pedantry  or  affectation,  the  traditions  of  the  past  to  the 
life  and  need  and  ways  of  the  present. 

The  American  house  thus  conceived  will  surely  have  one  final 
advantage  over  its  ancient  prototypes  in  the  fact  that  it  will  be 
new  and  sweet  and  clean.  It  is  impossible  not  to  feel  a  certain 
sympathy  with  one  distinguished  though  perhaps  somewhat 
Philistine  writer  when  he  says:  — 


On  the  Design  of  Houses  89 

"It  is  beautiful,  no  doubt,  and  exceedingly  satisfactory  to 
some  of  our  natural  instincts,  to  imagine  our  far  posterity 
dwelling  under  the  same  roof-tree  as  ourselves.  Still,  when 
people  insist  on  building  indestructible  houses,  they  incur,  or 
their  children  do,  a  misfortune  analogous  to  that  of  the  Sibyl, 
when  she  obtained  the  precious  boon  of  immortality.  So,  we 
may  build  almost  immortal  habitations,  it  is  true,  but  we  can- 
not keep  them  from  growing  old,  musty,  unwholesome,  dreary, 
full  of  death  scents,  ghosts,  and  murder  stains ;  in  short,  habi- 
tations such  as  one  sees  everywhere  in  Italy,  be  they  hovels  or 
palaces. 

You  should  go  with  me  to  my  native  country,'  observed  the 
sculptor  to  Donatello.  'In  that  fortunate  land  each  generation 
has  only  its  own  sins  and  sorrows  to  bear! '  " 


By  the  Sea 


I 

VII 

BY  THE  SEA 
1898 

NEITHER  forest  nor  stream,  neither  mountain  nor  lake, 
can  satisfy  the  lover  of  the  sea.  If  the  sough  of  the  breeze 
through  wind-swept  woods  is  sweet  to  him,  it  is  because  he  hears 
in  it  the  murmur  of  the  ocean.  Rivers,  woods,  and  hills  are  for 
others.  Give  him  the  briny  air  blowing  in  from  kelp-laden  ledges; 
the  rollers  breaking  in  a  white  crescent  on  the  sand;  the  wet 
spray  dashed  from  the  bow  of  his  boat;  the  wide  spread  of  blue 
water  stretching  far  to  the  horizon,  where  coasters  silently  pass 
and  repass  and  where  ocean  and  sky  blend  together. 

"What  heed  I  of  the  dusty  land  and  noisy  town  ? 
I  see  the  mighty  deep  expand 
From  its  white  line  of  glimmering  sand 
To  where  the  blue  of  heaven  on  bluer  waves  shuts  down." 

"Love  the  sea?"  says  Douglas  Jerrold.  "I  dote  upon  it  .  .  . 
from  the  beach."  When  fog  settles  down  and  lies  thick  over  land 
and  sea,  we  are  certainly  better  off  on  the  beach.  No  inventions 
have  conquered  fog,  and  the  fisherman  on  the  Banks,  the  deep- 
sea  sailor  on  the  ocean,  and  the  yachtsman  along  our  shores  must 
alike  hold  it  in  dread.  But  almost  any  weather  that  is  not  foggy 
lures  many  a  man  from  the  beach  and  gives  him  his  best  holidays. 
In  the  break  of  day  our  boat  glides  silently  from  the  sleeping 
harbor.  We  pass  the  green  ramparts  of  the  fort,  and  the  sentinel 


94         An  Architect's  Sketch  Book 

pacing  his  lonely  round  is  darkly  outlined  on  the  morning  sky. 
The  sea  is  rosy  with  the  early  sunlight,  but  here  and  there  the 
rising  breeze  breaks  it  into  ripples  and  these  grow  and  broaden 
and  join  until  the  whole  sparkles.  The  ocean  swell  meets  us  as 
we  haul  to  for  a  basket  of  bait  at  the  herring  traps  by  the  outer 
ledges.  In  the  wake  of  these  rocks,  that  are  at  once  the  de- 
fense and  the  danger  of  our  harbor,  there  is  smooth  green  water 
flecked  with  foam.  Outside,  where  the  surges  break,  are  advanc- 
ing rollers  and  ebbing  torrents,  a  roar  of  waters  and  the  scream 
of  circling  gulls.  Sailing  far  beyond  all  this,  we  get  due  bearings 
on  the  distant  shores ;  then  down  come  our  sails  and  we  are  at 
anchor. 

Certainly  nowhere  is  nature  so  large,  so  direct,  so  unconfused 
as  on  the  sea.  The  ocean  and  the  sky  are  each  full  of  change, 
but  the  story  they  tell  is  as  simple  as  it  is  grand.  For  ages  the  dry 
land  has  been  combed  and  furrowed  and  planted  and  sheared ; 
but  man  has  been  as  powerless  to  change  the  surface  of  the  sea  as 
of  the  heaven  that  arches  over  it. 

"Ten  thousand  fleets  sweep  over  thee  in  vain, 
Man  marks  the  earth  with  ruin,  —  his  control 
Stops  with  the  shore." 

The  waves  sing  the  same  song  that  they  did  when  the  boundless 
deep  was  gathered  into  one  place  and  God  saw  that  it  was  good. 
The  sea  remains  as  majestic  as  when  the  Spirit  of  God  first  moved 
upon  the  face  of  the  waters. 

Away  in  the  distance  the  world  we  have  left  behind  has  faded 
into  a  mystery  of  haze.  Wide  heaven  is  above  us  and  a  clear 


By  the  Sea 


95 


horizon  bounds  the  waves  that  encircle  us.  The  golden  path- 
way to  the  sun  starts  from  our  feet.  What  might  be  an  over- 
powering loneliness  is  lightly  but  constantly  broken.  Now  a 
school  of  porpoises  rises  near  us  and  the  surface  of  the  sea  is 
broken  by  their  gleaming  bodies.  Then  with  snorts  and  puffs 
they  vanish  in  the  deep.  A  fishing  schooner  cruises  down 
upon  us  and  the  lookout  in  her  cross-trees  sights  menhaden. 
In  a  trice  her  two  boats  are  dropping  their  nets  in  a  circle 
around  the  frightened  fish.  We  watch  the  hauling  of  the  fatal 
purse  and  see  the  shower  of  silver  fall  glancing  into  the  boats. 
The  whole  picture  rises  and  falls  with  the  deep-sea  roll.  The 
waiting  schooner,  the  seine  boats  with  their  groups  of  working- 
men,  the  long  sweep  of  the  net  buoys  all  swing  into  one  graceful 
group,  and  the  next  moment  they  drop  behind  a  great  roller,  and 
of  this  scene  of  bustle  and  activity  nothing  is  visible  but  the 
schooner's  sails. 

Our  Palinurus  is  what  they  call  a  lucky  fisherman.  This  means 
that  he  spends  the  afternoon  before  a  fishing-trip  wading  over  the 
mud  flats  and  digging  up  "sweetmeats"  for  bait.  Then,  unless 
detained  by  less  ardent  companions,  at  three  in  the  morning  he 
can  be  found  rowing  a  heavy  dory  five  or  six  miles  out  to  sea, 
and  just  as  the  sun  rises  and  as  the  tide  begins  to  flood  he 
dangles  a  tempting  breakfast  before  the  largest  cod  on  the  coast. 
After  all,  is  it  not  to  such  people  in  other  walks  of  life  that  luck 
comes? 

But  energy  and  laziness  are  strangely  mingled  in  the  dwellers 
on  our  coasts.  Palinurus  himself  will  make  these  trips  without 


96         An  Architect's  Sketch  Book 

compass  or  biscuit  or  water  bottle,  and  when  confronted  by  sudden 
gales  returns  in  a  condition  of  exhaustion  wholly  due  to  his  own 
imprudence.  The  people  of  our  seashore  towns  in  general  have 
but  modest  means,  and  yet  scarcely  a  man  or  woman  can  be  found 
for  an  odd  job.  Every  one  is  independent  to  a  fault,  but  when 
their  interest  is  aroused  men  nowhere  are  more  ready  to  go  aloft 
or  man  a  lifeboat  or  follow  the  flag  by  land  or  sea. 

Read  the  inscriptions  above  the  graves  on  our  rocky  hillside. 
There  you  see  how  the  men  of  the  town  have  met  death  in  ship- 
wreck and  battle,  amid  adventure  and  danger,  doing  men's  work. 
Indeed,  here  is  told  on  one  memorial  stone  how  sixty -five  of  them 
went  down  in  one  terrible  gale  on  the  Grand  Banks.  As  far  back 
as  in  the  days  of  the  Revolution  it  was  to  the  regiment  recruited 
in  our  town  that  Washington  turned  for  help  in  his  retreat  from 
Long  Island.  The  same  amphibious  body  rowed  him  and  his 
men  across  the  icy  Delaware  at  Trenton.  This  little  town  of 
Marblehead  alone  sent  a  thousand  men  to  the  War  of  1812,  of 
whom  over  seven  hundred  were  on  privateers.  The  town  an- 
nals are  full  of  the  stories  of  the  courage  and  daring  of  the  men 
who  manned  these  ships  and  of  the  sufferings  of  the  several  hun- 
dred who  were  held  as  prisoners  in  Halifax  and  Chatham  and 
Plymouth. 

The  local  heroes  are  not  the  wise  or  the  learned  or  the  good, 
but  men  of  action;  Captain  Mugford,  who  with  his  boat  crews 
captured  an  English  war  vessel;  General  Glover,  who  led  the 
Marblehead  regiment  in  the  Revolution ;  or  Captain  Knott 
Martin,  the  butcher,  who,  when  the  call  came  in  1861,  left  his 


By  the  Sea  97 

newly  killed  hog  half-dressed  that  he  might  notify  his  men 
promptly,  and  then  reported  with  his  company  at  the  State 
House  before  any  other  country  troops  reached  Boston.  Of 
such  stuff  are  these  men  made.  Soft  sea  mists  and  life  beside 
the  ocean  render  them  sleepy  until  an  emergency  arrives,  and 
then  the  pure  blood  of  Old  and  New  England  tells. 

While  Marblehead  was  sending  out  fishermen  and  priva- 
teers, the  ships  of  our  richer  neighbor,  Salem,  were  doing 
still  larger  work.  They  were  to  be  found  rounding  the  Cape 
of  Good  Hope,  pushing  onward  for  the  trade  of  the  Red  Sea, 
and  bringing  their  cargoes  from  Madras,  Calcutta,  and  Bombay, 
from  Ceylon  and  Sumatra.  Later,  Salem  vied  with  our  own 
town  in  sending  out  privateers,  and  the  waters  where  we  are 
now  fishing  were  the  rendezvous  of  all  these  armed  ships.  Dur- 
ing the  Revolution  Salem  equipped  at  least  one  hundred  and 
fifty-eight  vessels.  They  brought  in  four  hundred  and  forty-five 
prizes,  and  during  the  War  of  1812  forty  privateers  sailed  from 
that  now  sleepy  port.  The  ships  commanded  by  one  captain  alone 
captured  more  than  a  thousand  guns  from  the  enemy.  As  prize 
after  prize  was  sent  in  by  him  and  his  fellow  fighters,  our  quiet 
waters  must  have  been  the  scene  of  much  activity  and  excite- 
ment. When  these  venturesome  sailors  vanished  from  the  sea 
the  seafaring  spirit  to  a  great  degree  departed  with  them.  There 
were  perhaps  but  two  or  three  men  from  our  town  in  the  Navy 
during  the  Spanish  War,  although  she  sent  a  full  company 
into  the  Army.  There  is  no  commerce  to  speak  of  at  our 
own  wharves.  The  great  range  of  warehouses  that  line  the  long 


98         An  Architedt's  Sketch  Book 

piers  at  Salem,  once  filled  with  silks  and  teas  and  nankeens,  now 
moulder  empty  by  the  deserted  harbor.  Have  these  old  commu- 
nities, like  so  many  others  through  the  country,  irrevocably  suc- 
cumbed to  modern  life?  Are  the  energy  and  brains  that  once 
found  employment  at  home  now  absorbed  by  the  great  cities? 
Has  manufacturing,  which  came  in  with  the  great  Embargo, 
definitely  supplanted  the  seafaring  life  of  New  England?  Let  us 
hope  that  the  old  spirit  is  but  dormant,  and  that  new  circum- 
stances may  bring  to  these  shores  marine  industries  for  which 
nature  has  fitted  them,  —  shipbuilding,  shipping,  and  fishing,  — 
as  well  as  the  pleasure  yachting  that  now  absorbs  its  harbor  life. 
Even  here  where  we  are  fishing  the  world's  business  is  in  sight. 
Stone  sloops  with  decks  awash,  bankers  with  nests  of  dories, 
seiners  with  seine  boats  in  tow,  puffing  tugs  and  ocean  liners  and 
three-masted  coasters,  they  all  go  by  us,  way  off,  hull  down  on 
the  dim  horizon.  To-day,  at  any  rate,  all  the  coasting  cargoes 
but  coal  go  to  other  ports,  and  the  American  shipping  which 
sailed  to  foreign  ports,  giving  us  so  much  glory  and  gain,  is, 
because  of  the  indifference  of  Congress,  a  thing  of  the  past  not 
only  here  but  all  along  our  shores. 

Our  lawmakers  do  indeed  seem  hopelessly  hostile  to  things 
marine.  With  a  little  help  from  them,  for  instance,  we  might  as 
we  now  talk  be  catching  more  codfish.  What  we  want  here  are 
laws  of  repression  that  will  restrict  the  fisherman  to  the  use  of 
hand  lines.  Failing  these,  our  waters  are  swept  clear  by  trawls 
and  seines  and  traps,  so  that  the  fish  and  lobsters  whose  nurseries 
are  among  our  rocky  headlands  have  no  chance  to  multiply. 


By  the  Sea  99 

When  November  comes  and  the  great  codfish  come  in  from  out- 
side to  spawn  on  the  rocky  ledges,  they  are  met  by  trawls,  four 
to  a  boat,  with  five  hundred  hooks  to  each  trawl,  or  by  ranks  of 
cod  seines  floated  near  the  bottom  by  glass  floats,  tended  by  dories 
that  carry  naptha  engines.  When  the  fishermen  underrun  these 
murderous  outfits,  they  bring  up  all  that  swims.  No  wonder  that 
where  once  hand-line  fishing  was  a  good  occupation,  there  now 
are  but  poor  and  ever  lessening  fares  for  the  shore  fisherman.  An 
absolutely  close  season  for  lobsters  would  also  be  effective,  but 
the  present  laws  only  limit  the  length  of  those  that  maybe  taken. 
The  fisherman  is  expected  to  throw  back  the  small  lobsters  found 
in  the  trap.  But  as  these  meet  a  ready  purchaser  and  can  be 
used  for  bait,  is  not  this  asking  too  much  of  him?  If  he  fails  to 
throw  them  back  there  will  soon  be  no  lobsters  on  our  coast. 

Such  subjects  occupy  us  in  the  intervals  of  fishing,  and,  as  we 
while  away  the  time  with  talk,  the  ever-varying  hours  pass,  and 
gradually  we  find  the  sea  changing  in  color  to  a  deep  indigo.  The 
scudding  vessels  show  hard  and  dark  against  the  horizon.  In 
the  west  the  clouds  pile  up  leaden  and  brown  in  ponderous  masses. 
Slowly  the  threatening  curtain  moves  towards  us,  the  edge  of  the 
storm  cloud  showing  ragged  and  frayed  against  the  dead  white 
sky.  Then  with  thunder  growls  and  lightning  flash  and  furious 
wind  and  drenching  rain,  the  line  of  shower,  clean-cut  on  the 
water,  comes  driving  white  towards  us.  The  gusts  strike  us,  and 
while  the  windows  of  heaven  are  open  the  world  is  for  a  space 
blotted  out  from  view  by  the  falling  torrents.  Clad  in  "oilies" 
and  tarpaulins,  with  everything  snugly  stowed,  we  wait  patiently 


ioo        An  Archite&'s  Sketch  Book 

until  the  tempest  passes  down  the  coast  and  long  slanting  gleams 
of  sunshine  break  through  the  scattering  clouds,  and  thus  gradu- 
ally the  heavens  clear  and  smile  again. 

There  are  days  when  the  sea  is  leaden  and  oily,  when  the  air  is 
laden  with  the  smell  of  fish  and  the  distant  shores  look  near  and 
hard;  but  even  then  it  needs  but  a  fresh  wind  from  the  north- 
west to  change  all  this,  and  in  their  turn  come  clear  air  and 
sparkling  waters  and  a  bright  gladness  everywhere.  Then  down 
the  opposite  shore  sails  the  great  white-winged  procession  of 
coasters  that  have  sought  a  lee  during  the  bad  weather.  There 
they  go,  fifty  sail  of  them,  in  long  single  file  laden  with  lumber 
and  laths  and  coal  and  lime  and  bound  across  the  bay. 

"Behold  the  threaden  sails, 
Borne  with  the  invisible  and  creeping  wind, 
Draw  the  huge  bottoms  through  the  furrowed  sea, 
Breasting  the  lofty  surge." 

With  another  morning  the  scene  again  changes.  The  dawn 
comes  calm  and  windless  and  a  summer  haze  sends  the  other 
shore  into  remoteness.  Nature  dreams,  and  over  the  watery 
mirror  come  in  broad  patches  the  reflections  of  idle  sails  and  of 

"Ships  softly  sinking  in  the  sleepy  sea." 

Can  it  be  that  these  changes  go  on  every  day;  that  daily  this 
endless  succession  of  cloud  and  storm  and  sunshine  continue  and 
the  vast  circle  of  ocean  smiles  or  frowns  or  laughs  in  the  sunshine, 
veils  itself  in  impenetrable  fogs,  or  lashes  itself  with  the  gale? 
Why  are  we,  cooped  up  in  dull  offices,  shut  off  from  these  great 
wonders?  Perhaps  we  should  find  hard  the  lot  of  the  lobsterman 


By  the  Sea  101 

who  hauls  his  pots  off  the  brown  rocks  of  our  shores,  or  of  the 
fisherman  who  sets  his  seines  on  the  broad  sea,  but  they  have 
their  compensations,  for  "These  men  see  the  works  of  the  Lord5 
and  his  wonders  in  the  deep." 

Sailing  about  our  harbor  is  never  tiresome.  It  is  the  most 
picturesque  one  on  our  coast.  The  town  is  old  and  the  houses  rise 
above  the  wharves  in  straggling  masses.  But  the  harbor's  unique 
beauty  is  mainly  due  to  the  red-towered  building  that  tops  the 
closely  built  town.  Though  a  simple  structure,  it  is  so  well  placed 
that  it  commands  and  dominates  the  hill  and  dignifies  every  view. 
This  tower-crowned  hill  forms  a  pleasing  background  to  the 
varied  shipping  as  we  thread  our  devious  way  among  yachts  and 
coasters  and  fishermen.  Doubtless  the  painter  wishes  that  the 
foreground  of  this  picture  offered  some  of  the  picturesque  models 
that  the  ports  of  the  Old  World  offer.  There  are  no  long-winged 
lateen  rigs;  nothing  like  the  great  Thames  barges  with  their 
brightly  varnished  spars  and  great  expanse  of  brown  sail;  there 
are  no  such  brilliant  winged  boats  as  one  sees  on  the  Adriatic,  nor 
round-bodied,  full-breasted  fishing-boats  such  as  France  and 
Holland  and  England  send  to  the  North  Sea  and  the  Channel, 
flat-bottomed  and  tough,  fitted  to  thump  on  unprotected  ocean 
beaches  and  start  forth  again  on  the  returning  tide.  We  have  not 
even  the  square-rigged  brigantines  that  monopolize  the  coasting 
trade  around  the  British  Isles.  It  is  true  that  a  few  old  pinkie 
sterns  on  the  Maine  coast  recall  by  their  high  poops  the  castles  of 
mediaeval  vessels  and  can  claim  close  descent  from  the  May- 
flower and  the  Arbella.  But,  except  for  these,  the  boats  in  which 


102        An  Architect's  Sketch  Book 

Irish  and  Portuguese  fishermen  cruise  about  Massachusetts  Bay, 
and  the  Johnny  wood  boats  from  Nova  Scotia  are  about  all  that 
we  can  show  of  the  ancient  fashions.  The  ancient  and  the  pic- 
turesque have  vanished  before  the  desire  to  carry  great  cargoes 
rapidly  or  to  ride  out  the  gales  on  the  Banks  and  bring  fish 
speedily  to  port.  The  American  vessel  now  embodies  the  hope  of 
the  future  rather  than  respect  for  the  past.  Hence  are  left  to  us  of 
sailing-vessels  only  the  three-  and  four-masted  schooners  and  the 
Gloucester  fisherman  and  the  yacht.  These  models  are  less  pic- 
torial than  those  that  Vander  Velde  had  before  him  when  paint- 
ing those'pictures  of  Dutch  men-of-war  in  harbor  and  in  battle 
that  we  see  at  Antwerp  and  The  Hague.  But  for  all  that,  one  may 
well  envy  the  occupations  of  painters  like  De  Haas  and  Norton 
and  Quartley  and  Winslow  Homer,  who  have  pictured  sea  life  and 
who  daily  drew  the  beauties  of  sea  and  sky  on  our  coasts. 

What  a  short  history  has  been  that  of  the  evolution  of  the 
modern  ship!  In  the  days  when  Columbus  "sailed  the  ocean 
blue,"  oars  were  relied  on  for  propulsion  quite  as  much  as  sails. 
At  the  Ducal  Palace  in  Venice  we  see  on  the  walls  a  painting  of  the 
Battle  of  Lepanto.  It  is  a  confused  mass  of  charging  galleys  pro- 
pelled by  serried  banks  of  oars.  These  terrible  oars  were  often 
sixty  feet  long  and  manned  by  four  or  five  men.  We  wonder  how 
these  vessels  were  controlled  and  what  happened  when  a  miser- 
able oarsman  missed  his  short,  jerky  stroke  or  fell  at  his  labor.  But 
our  curiosity  is  greater  still  about  the  feats  of  those  early  sailors 
who  depended  on  wind  alone.  When  storm  and  stress  overtook 
the  ships  of  Philip's  Armada,  it  seems  but  natural  that  their 


By  the  Sea  103 

high  castles  fore  and  aft,  their  bellying  sails  and  flaunting  ban- 
ners and  their  more  or  less  open  hulls  should  have  made  them  an 
easy  prey  to  the  hungry  rocks  and  the  tempests  of  the  North  Sea. 
But  how  did  Sir  Francis  Drake  bring  home  safe  his  almost  equally 
clumsy  ships,  and  how  did  Cabot  and  Columbus  and  Magellan 
cross  the  wide  oceans  on  their  unwieldy  craft?  Doubtless  they 
drifted  on  merrily  enough  with  favoring  winds,  but,  when  the 
gale  came  out  ahead,  why  did  they  not  lose  all  they  had  gained 
and  more?  If  they  once  did  strike  a  trade  wind  that  wafted 
them  across,  how  did  they  know  where  to  seek  an  equally  fair 
wind  to  bring  them  back  over  strange  waters?  Yet  Columbus  and 
Magellan  did  somehow  knock  off  as  many  miles  of  progress  a  day 
as  many  vessels  still  in  service  on  the  Down  East  coast  can  do 
to-day.  We  must  admit  that  they  were  wonders!  Possibly  the 
curious  drawing  of  many  artists  in  those  old  days  made  the  ships 
appear  more  clumsy  than  they  really  were.  But  even  if  this  is  so 
the  enormous  poops  and  forecastles  were  so  long  perpetuated  in 
Dutch  carracks,  in  Spanish  galleons,  in  British  East-Indiamen, 
and  even  in  British  men-of-war  up  to  the  days  of  our  Revolution, 
that  we  may  feel  sure  that  the  ships  of  the  early  navigators  were  in 
form  as  clumsy  as  and  perhaps  not  unlike  Chinese  junks.  Nelson 
fought  with  ships  of  boxlike  hulls,  that  had  heavy  quarters 
and  overhanging  galleries,  though  they  were  well  rigged  and  well 
handled ;  but  on  some  of  the  American  frigates  clumsiness  of 
the  hull  above  water  changed  to  sharp  entrances  and  graceful, 
easy  runs  beneath  the  water.  The  hulls  of  the  American  clipper 
packets  and  Baltimore  slavers  assumed  the  finer  lines  that  give 


104        An  Archite&t's  Sketch  Book 

fleetness.  The  introduction  of  steel  rigging  and  masts  and  hulls, 
and,  more  than  all,  of  steam,  completed  the  revolution,  until  be- 
tween a  modern  battleship  and  Nelson's  Victory  there  is  but  a 
shadowy  resemblance. 

Curiously  enough,  all  this  has  happened  at  the  hands  of  seamen, 
who  of  all  people  are  the  most  conservative  and  who  hold  fast  to 
speech  and  ways  and  facts  wrung  from  the  bitter  experiences  of 
generations  of  sailors.  The  shipwright  has  the  best  of  trades.  He 
uses  head  as  well  as  hands,  but  whether  he  be  laying  down  patterns, 
or  framing  and  planking  his  hull,  or  doing  joiner  work,  or  paint- 
ing and  rigging  his  craft,  he  is  bound  on  every  hand  by  marine 
conventions  and  customs.  It  is  strange  that,  guided  by  such  men, 
the  evolution  of  the  modern  ship  has  been  so  rapid  an  achieve- 
ment, for  certainly  no  modern  structure  has  changed  more  from 
its  early  prototype  than  has  the  modern  ship  from  that  of  the 
days  of  Columbus.  Jack  Tar  through  all  the  changes  keeps  much 
the  same.  His  world  is  still  all  his  own  and  in  it  the  landsman  is 
indeed  a  stranger.  But  his  methods,  his  peculiar  language,  and 
his  prejudices  persist  because  they  are  founded  on  experience  and 
common  sense.  Through  every  chance  and  change  his  know- 
ledge, though  applied  to  new  and  varying  problems  and  to  the 
rapid  changes  in  shipbuilding,  never  lets  go  of  the  methods  and 
ways  that  have  been  proved  fit  by  centuries  of  fighting  with  wind 
and  wave  and  tide  and  calm.  Indeed,  because  the  vessel  that 
thus  comes  from  his  hands  has  lines  in  sympathy  with  the  ele- 
ments that  surround  her,  whether  yacht  or  merchantman  or  fish- 
erman or  fighter,  she  is  a  thing  of  beauty. 


By  the  Sea  105 

A  holiday  on  the  sea  gives  respite  from  the  thoughts  that 
occupy  other  days.  Still  no  architect  can  fail  to  notice  that  the 
steps  taken  by  the  art  of  shipbuilding  are  very  like  those  by 
which  the  art  of  architecture  progresses.  The  conventions  by 
which  both  express  themselves  are  founded  on  necessity  and 
experience.  These  conventions  are  bent  and  adapted  to  special 
needs.  When  the  adaptation  is  perfect  the  result  is  beauty. 

With  these  thoughts  before  us  let  us  paddle  ashore  past  the 
white  hull  and  tall,  shining  masts  of  the  crack  yacht,  and  by  the 
plutocrat's  ocean  steamer  populous  with  white-shirted  jackies. 
The  quivering  reflections  of  the  vessels  brighten  the  surface  of  the 
water.  Over  by  the  fort  an  anchor  chain  runs  out  with  a  rattle  as 
the  fishing  schooner  ends  her  day's  work.  The  click  of  the  lobster- 
men's  oars  sounds  across  the  harbor.  From  the  fields  comes  the 
scent  of  bay  and  fern  and  rose,  freshened  by  the  recent  rain. 
Bugles  sound  from  the  fort,  and  as  the  sun  dips  in  the  west  the  flag 
comes  down.  The  harbor  begins  to  sparkle  with  riding  lights. 
We  near  the  wharves  and  they  lower  over  us  black  and  forbid- 
ding, but  behind  the  tower-topped  hill,  the  sky  is  aflame  with  red 
and  purple  and  gold;  and  above  us  is  a  pale  and  slender  moon. 


THE  END 


CAMBRIDGE  ■  MASSACHUSETTS 
U  •  S  •  A 


liiiilf 

3  3125  01360  8555 

